


Lady Reaper and The Liar

by lectrolamb



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Deacon is a turd, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Guilt, MacCready's in there for like two chapters, Slow Burn, Smut Eventually, Sole didn't love Nate, Sole didn't want Shaun, Sole is best friends with Glory, dead wife club, fuck the Institute, lots of guilt, the slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-05-25 20:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6209095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lectrolamb/pseuds/lectrolamb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whisper and Deacon make the best team - but he wasn't prepared for their chemistry to extend outside of the field. She's a killer, and he's a liar, both of the highest degree and both with enough issues to make a therapist's head spin. They are both stupid, stunted, stumbling, but... he thinks she's beautiful, and so strong, and she challenges him in ways that make him uncomfortable and exhilarated. He makes her smile even when the world is black and cold, makes her feel like her feet are on solid ground when everything else is up in the air (ironic, as stability isn't one of his strong points.) When Whisper first thawed out and left the Vault, it seemed like the entire world was gone to pieces - all she held dear was lost, all her existence burned to a husk. Strange, hostile, radation-ravaged, full of a rogues gallery of shadowy organizations and horrors of every kind. But the longer she spends in this strange new world, the more it seems... not all that bad. The people are trying, building, growing, in spite of everything. And just like wild hubflowers still spring up from the dead soil, even love will grow no matter how inhospitable the conditions, no matter how it may be neglected or stomped on - it will find a way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hand of God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Whisper and Deacon meet, fight, and then talk about God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited for canon consistency on 3/17/16

 

She showed up at the catacombs entrance with Nick Valentine, the synth detective, at her back. He'd been watching her, so he knew she was coming. Picking up hints about the Freedom Trail, and then following it through some of the most dangerous areas of Boston. She was fucking hardy - he'd watched her evade death and dish death out in equal part in all the time he'd spent following her, but never once did he see her lose the upper hand in battle. Just to get to Old North Church she carved a path through raiders, gunners, muties, and ferals - God help any creature who stood in her way. Or not, cause, you know, they were evil and she was good. She _was_ good, right? When she reached the Railroad's doorstep she was covered in blood and chunks of gore, and absolutely dazzling. He'd been following for a long time, but this _felt_ like the first time he'd ever laid eyes on her. Fresh perspective, and all that. He could've swore time slowed down and the theme from _A Summer Place_ played as she raised her arm to shield her face from the floodlights. Figure curvy yet capable, wrapped in Vault-Tec cerulean and mismatched cobbled-together leathers.Her skin was sweet, rich caramel ornamented with freckles and battlescars and an ultra-saturated smudge of cherry red lips formed into a perfectly sculpted perma-smirk. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she brushed aside her panther-black bob and smiled up at his and Desdemona's drawn guns. He got the sense that she found herself in this position a lot, smiling up at hot steel. Nobody could shoot that smile. It was more than just beauty.

  
"Would you risk your life for a synth?" Dez asked.

  
"She has. Several times." Nick spoke from behind her.

  
"And I will again." She added.

  
Well, nobody had ever shown up _with_ a synth to vouch for them before. Points for originality.

  
Dez was hard, and Dez was cautious, but Dez trusted the woman almost implicitly. As a new Railroad agent she was given a codename and he couldn't have picked a better one himself. _Whisper._ Cause that's how she was, soft and easy, a quiet suggestion right in your ear, slipping in real cool and making you think it was your idea all along. He watched her charm her way through first impressions at HQ. She met everyone where they were. Glory got roguish sarcasm and gun talk, Dez got respect, Doc Carrington got smoke blown up his ass, Drummer Boy got told he was important, and Tinker Tom got someone to stand and listen patiently. Deacon wasn't used to anyone being as wily as he was, and he liked her _way_ too much to feel threatened by it.

  
He learned a lot about her, that first mission together at the Switchboard. The first thing he learned was that she was _fucking deadly_ , and thank God for it. And not in a brutish way, either. She was subtle, careful, _smart._ Killer aim and shrewd battle sense, she fought like someone who had a lot to lose. A surgeon with a bobby pin, and adept at hacking terminals, she used every advantage presented to her. She preferred energy weapons, and she would never admit it, but it was mostly because it just made her feel good to reduce baddies into little piles of bone dust and viscera (or burnt wires and charred metal, in the case of the Gen 1s that had overtaken the Switchboard.) The second thing he learned was that she was fun, fun as hell. She could keep up with him, with his sarcasm and wit and constant jokes. She rolled with the punches, adapting when he let her take the lead with the tourist, never missing a beat. In battle, too. They worked as one unit better than anyone else he'd ever gone on missions with. They covered each other, they communicated without words when words could get them killed, she anticipated him in a way that made collaborative strategy a breeze and an absolute joy. They nabbed the Doc's prototype and dipped out, mission complete, and when they agreed to split up and meet back at HQ she couldn't suppress a grin.

  
"We made a good team."

  
_"The best."_ And boy, did he mean it. He started missing her from the second she turned her back and walked away and _oh, that ass._ What was that saying? Hate to see you go, love to watch you walk away? Yep. That was it. He watched her hips sway, breath stuck in his chest with an oppressive tightness, until she faded into the Wasteland fog. _Exhale, buddy. Exhale._

  
Dez was so impressed with her success, she saddled her with another mission right away. Bunker Hill, Old Man Stockton, H2-22, and Deacon right by her side. He couldn't deny his delight when Whisper slid right in to the covert language with Stockton - there was _a package_ that she needed to _facilitate the delivery of_. Espionage came so naturally to her. Almost as naturally as killing, which was the next step. A dozen raiders, wasted outside of an old church that was to be the rendezvous point. Stockton would bring them H2, and another contact would meet them to take H2 to a safe house. But it was early afternoon, and Stockton said he would meet them after dark, and that's how Deacon found himself alone with Whisper in an old dilapidated church with a few hours to kill.

  
He sat down on one of the pews, laying his sniper rifle down and kicking his boots up on the back of the bench in front of him.

  
"Now this, _this_ is my favorite part of the job. Excitement, danger, espionage, saving lives? Nah. I'm in it for the idle downtime."

  
Whisper chuckled. She held tight to her laser rifle, but he saw her shoulders relax ever so slightly.

  
"Yeah… nothing gets the adrenaline pumping quite like standing around doing shit all."

  
He grinned. Whisper stood with her chest puffed out, and a wary gaze fixed on the door. Her finger stayed close to the trigger of her laser rifle, and he could tell she was still on alert. For a moment, he thought about what she'd been through, and he felt a pang deep inside. The Wasteland was hell for people who were born into it. But she'd had a normal life, once. She lived in the world before the bombs - a cotton candy paradise in the eyes of most Wastelanders. He couldn't begin to imagine.

  
"At ease, sarge." His voice was soft and he was so glad for his sunglasses because he was sure his eyes betrayed his empathy. "We got all the raiders, and we'll hear anything else way before it comes. Relax."

  
And relax she did. It was like a switch flipped. She holstered her gun and sat down on the floor in front of him. As the sun set, that little dilapidated church was filled with the sounds of Diamond City Radio and laughter, and two little cigarette spots burning like bright stars. She pulled a surprisingly well-preserved pack of cards out of her pack, and they played crazy eights while chatting idly. She didn't seem eager to speak of anything before she woke up in the Vault, and he sure as hell wasn't going to press. She hadn't been long in the Wasteland, but she already had plenty of stories to tell. Her eyes lit up as she told him about how one of the very first things she'd done out of the vault was hop into a suit of power armor and fight a Deathclaw - and then animatedly reenacted the fight. She played the role of both herself and the Deathclaw with incredible acting skills - claw hands and ferocious roars as the Deathclaw, and metal hydraulics and minigun blasts as herself. She smiled fondly when she recounted how she'd teamed up with Diamond City's Bobrov brothers to fabricate a fake bar fight to boost the confidence of Travis, from the radio. _Holy shit, that was you?!_ He's like a different man now! And she seemed to have no end of good things to say about Nick - he was a beloved friend, just by the way she talked about him.

  
For a brief moment, the conversation lulled into a comfortable silence, and she looked up at the pulpit. Rising from a pile of post-apocalyptic debris was a big wooden cross. The way her eyes snagged on it… just the smallest second's lingering gaze… yeah, he knew that.

  
"You a God-fearing woman, Whisper?"

  
She let out an abrasive, barking laugh.

  
"Hell no!" _Ooh, nice blasphemy, doll._ "Even if I had been, before the bombs… what kind of God would let this happen?" She made a sweeping gesture with her arm that he understood as _and by this, I mean this general apocalyptic hellscape shithole of a Wasteland._ "No. I never was religious, much to my parents' disappointment. Even though it was their fault I was so repulsed by religion in the first place. When will parents learn that the whole oppressive Puritan religious dictatorship thing just pushes their hormonal teenage kids further in to sin?"

"Oh yeah. Tale as old as time. Guilt, manipulation, mind games, future psychological issues… good, wholesome family fun. Tough break, girl. Sorry 'bout it."

  
Whisper shrugged.

"I'm glad for it, actually. Made it all easier… all this." There was pain in that last word. Oceans of it, dark and deep and scary. And then the sun came out and she was up again. "Besides, it's not all bleak. I may not believe in God, but I believe in people. Good people, trying to do good in this shit world. Like Nick. And you."

  
He knew she meant _you_ as in the Railroad, not him personally Deacon, but she looked at him and smiled and he was so damn dazzled down to his core and was she an actual, real angel? _Say something, man, be cool!_ He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his head.

  
"Yeah, well, you're doing good too. Good of you to help us. And I hope we can help you, too. Ya know, with finding your son and all that."

  
Her smile was strained, but no colder, and she nodded in solemn acknowledgement. She was so young, and so vibrant. It was strange to think of her as a widow, as the vengeful mother. It was like a jacket that didn't quite fit, too tight in the shoulders and too short in the sleeves. There was much disconnect between what he knew about her, and what he saw in her, and it was delicious and endlessly intriguing. _Aaaaand here's Old Man Stockton with H2-22. Let's get this package in the mail._

  
She was gentle and kind with H2-22, repeatedly reassuring him that they would keep him safe. He saw the mother in her, then, and it was sweet and tender and in such stark contrast to the way she went out and absolutely fucking massacred scores of raiders and muties on the route from the church to Ticonderoga… but if it was all to keep H2 safe, and get him to safety, well… that's pretty motherly, too. She got the job done, better than any agent he'd worked with, rookie or vet. After the mission they should've gone straight back to HQ, but she suggested a round of drinks at the Third Rail and he couldn't say no. Later that night, three-quarters of the way through a bottle of whiskey, she turned to him with hazy eyes. The bar was dark, crowded, and filled with smoke, and sweet Magnolia was crooning, and Whisper's shoulder was pressed against his, and there was something so very intimate about this moment. Before she even opened her mouth he could tell that her guard was down, just a little bit.

  
"I lied." Heh. He laughed inwardly. Her voice was low, words slurred slightly. "Earlier. In the church. About God." For a moment she gazed off past Whitechapel Charlie, eyes unfocused, brows furrowed. He nudged her slightly.

  
"Yeah? Spill, sister."

  
"I do believe in God. Well, not like, Santa Claus in the sky God. But I believe that there is some force… something bigger than us, something that controls us, something that rules us all." Her whiskey tumbler dangled from her fingers, and she gestured with it emphatically. "It's _death!_ Deacon. _Death._ Death is God."

  
She was dead serious and it was actually really sad when he thought about the things she'd gone through to make her feel that way (and she wasn't wrong) but he couldn't help himself but burst out laughing. _She's got it all figured out. She really does._ He clapped an arm around her shoulder and grinned boisterously.

  
"You're right, you know? Death is God. And you're the fucking Grim Reaper. Come on now, miss Hand of God, I think you've had just about enough to drink. I'll get you a room at the Rexford. Rest up, cause in the morning we're going back to HQ and giving Dez a mission recap. I'm gonna make up some crazy story again - you'll play along, right?"

  
"Yeah," she smiled, tipsy. "I'll play along. I always will."

  
Oh, he _liked_ her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join me on [ tumblr ](http://forevermarked.tumblr.com/)


	2. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Whisper almost dies but she gets touched by Deacon so it's all good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for slightly graphic violence in the form of a deathclaw fight!! Grr

 

It wasn't long before he saw Whisper seduce a man for intel. Some poor Upper Stands stuffed shirt who knew too much and couldn't keep his cool. She had this pretty dress, pink, she kept clean and neatly folded in her pack, to be taken out any time she needed to look nice. They entered the Taphouse separately, and Deacon nursed a drink at the bar inconspicuously as Whisper sidled over to the target. She was good. Real good. She left with the man, and when she came back alone an hour later she had information about a synth in the pipe and Deacon had a lot of confused feelings.

  
Then it was a Diamond City Security guard, just for fun. She lit up underneath the Power Noodle sign. She was a girl again, giggling and twirling her hair. The guy was handsome, and he ate it up. Whisper had a hookup with Becky Fallon to save her any scavenged cosmetics that came through her supply lines. She had a little golden bullet of red lipstick worn down to a rounded-off nub, and some black eyeliner, and he watched her relish in the application of these items many times, like a little ritual. It was strange, but it was beginning to make sense to him. He would've bet money that she was a man-eater before the war (before she settled down, got married, had a kid.) This was her way of retaining normalcy. His heart stung when he thought of being torn from your life so violently that you have to find something, anything, so small, just to connect yourself back to it. It was noble, and it made her really good at what she does, and he liked it. And every time he saw another man have her, or implied have her, or even think about having her, he wanted her more. She knew it, too.

  
He missed her when she's gone. Like when she took Nick into the Glowing Sea to hunt down some rumored former Institute scientist. He'd never known anyone willing to go to such great lengths on nothing but a scrap of a hope of a hushed rumor. She threw herself at danger so eagerly and he was worried she would never come back. People disappeared without a trace all the time in the Wasteland, their bones ground into the irradiated dirt, no eulogy or gravestone or mourning. He didn't want her flame snuffed out before he had time to properly feel it's heat.

  
She came back, though. She went to the center of the _freaking_ Glowing Sea, to the _god damn atom bomb crater_ , and by some unholy miracle she survived to tell the tale. Besides, he should've known better than to assume that she was only in danger when she _wasn't_ with him. She was quiet when she came back from the Glowing Sea. Tight-lipped, like she was still chewing on whatever it was she found there. It was hard not to be curious. It was hard not to ask. On the way to whatever it was that was left of Augusta safe house, he couldn't resist a little question. Just about what it was like. Not what she found. Just… what it was _like._

  
"You really _don't_ want to know what it was like."

  
"No, you're right, I don't. That's why I asked."

  
She rolled her eyes.

  
"It's the worst of the Wasteland times a thousand. You can't see more than fifteen feet in front of your face. It's dark, _so dark_ , and yet the sun _glares_. There's sludge everywhere, and it's prime radscorpion breeding ground. It sucks."

  
"So… a prime vacation spot, then? I'll whip up a tourism campaign. 'Come to the beautiful Glowing Sea. _It sucks._ Now with more gigantic mutated scorpions! _And sludge!_ '"

  
Whisper snorted derisively.

  
"I have to go back, you know."

  
"Well shit."

  
The steps leading up to Kendall Hospital, formerly Augusta safehouse, loomed in front of them. She popped a fresh fusion cell in her laser rifle.

  
"Yeah… shit is right. Come on, let's do this. I need to kill something."

  
She led the way through the hospital, zapping the raiders that had inhabited it. With every scavver she killed, the furrow in between her brows just got deeper and meaner. She was _way_ deep in thought. Battle trance. The violence was helping her wrestle with whatever it was that was troubling her so - and he guessed it had something to do with what she'd found in the Glowing Sea. In the biggest central chamber of the busted hospital, there was a mountain of old desks and chairs and bookshelves burning and crackling. Nearby, on a pallet, a dozen bodies had been hastily piled in a heap.

  
"Fuck." Deacon swallowed. "These are our people. _Were_ our people. God dammit."

  
For a moment, Whisper dipped out of her thought bubble. She placed a slender hand gently on his bicep, her eyes dark and angry and empathetic all at once.

  
"Deacon." Her voice was hushed. "I'm so sorry."

  
"Yeah." His mouth was set in a hard line. "Let's make this right."

  
They fought with renewed vigor, because _now_ it was personal, and cleared out the building in record time. In a rusty desk drawer upstairs, Whisper found a holotape. She popped it in her Pip Boy and they listened solemnly to the last moments of Augusta. A sick silence hung in the air for a few moments afterwards, and finally Deacon spoke, low and hoarse.  
"Let's get this back to HQ."

  
They made their way back down to the bottom floor. Because of the way some of the upper floors had collapsed, the half of the bottom floor where they'd entered was partitioned from the half of the bottom floor where they would exit. As soon as Deacon's boots touched the ground he could feel that something was wrong, really wrong. Whisper felt it too - the little hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention, and she locked eyes with Deacon. They came to agreement wordlessly. _Careful. Slow. Quiet._ They could hear the fire crackling on the other side of the wall of debris, and they held their breath as they crept along the outer corner of the room. The exit door was controlled by a button - a button that didn't respond when Deacon pressed it. _Power's out._ Whisper nodded and began scanning the area immediately around the door. Lots and lots of dusty power consoles, dim and unresponsive, and…. there it was. A circuit breaker box. _Bingo_. She opened the metal door and flipped the circuit breaker. The power switched on with a low hum, and they heard a shriek and a crash from the other side of the room.

  
Nothing hones your reflexes like the Wasteland. At literally any moment there are a thousand different things that really want to kill you and can do so in a matter of seconds. Deathclaws are nine feet tall and can get from wherever they are to wherever you are in just a few steps. There's no room for hesitation - an instant was the difference between life and death. The beast turned towards them, picked up a nearby wheelchair in her gigantic claws, and threw it in their direction. It hit the ground near Whisper's feet and shattered. It began to move, and the ground rumbled.  
"Fuck!" Whisper hissed. "Get over there, by the door. Take out it's limbs first!"

  
Close quarters were _not_ ideal for fighting a deathclaw (was there ever an _ideal_ place to fight a deathclaw, though?) Deacon moved over by the door, and aimed down his scope at the deathclaw's joints. Hit it there, and you impede it's speed and ability to move. Whisper gripped her laser rifle and strode out to the middle of the room. It almost looked like she was running to meet the- _dear fucking God, she's running to meet the deathclaw._ She popped a few quick shots, also aiming for the beast's joints. They both hit it's right elbow and it shrieked, it's arm slamming on the ground, hanging limp and useless. Injured and pissed off, but not slowed down at all. _Legs, Deacon. Get the legs._ The monster lunged at Whisper with it's good arm, and she ducked down and rolled between the creature's gigantic scaly legs. She rose and spun in one quick motion and fired right at the soft, fleshy backside of the deathclaw's left knee. Once, twice, in quick succession, and the deathclaw roared so loudly that pieces of the ceiling began to crumble and fall. Now one of it's legs was crippled. It spun around to face Whisper and _god dammit Whisper you should've backed up before you shot!_ The beast was close enough that it didn't have to move to attack. It swiped and wrapped it's monstrous claws around her. Deacon cursed under his breath and lined up another shot.

  
It had Whisper clasped in one hand. Each individual talon on a deathclaw's hand is at least as long as a grown man's arm. And sharp, and strong. It's why they're called _death claws._ The beast raised Whisper up high above it's head. Deacon saw his partner's legs, shocks of bright blue, kick and flail wildly. The deathclaw pulled it's arm back and slammed her down on the ground, hard. She felt her ribs break, white-hot pain slicing her inside and spreading quick. She screamed and tasted blood. The monster was above her, and she could feel it's breath on her face, hot and stinking like rotten meat. A deathclaw's belly is it's most vulnerable area. Soft, fleshy, not protected by hard scales like the rest of it's body. The monster raised it's arm to strike again and she quickly rapid-fired six or seven shots from her rifle, clutched close to her side. The laser burned a hole straight through the deathclaw's hide. With a high-pitched shriek, the creature brought it's arm down swinging, and it's claws tore through both fabric and flesh on Whisper's right shoulder. She hissed as she felt hot blood bloom over the area. In the same moment, she dug her rifle into the deathclaw's chest and emptied an entire fusion cell in to the beast. She grit her teeth as the monster slumped over her, and through ringing ears she heard sniper rifle shots coming form the other side of the room. It was already most of the way dead - but Deacon had shot it several times in the head. Just to be sure. It let out a low groan as it died, and Whisper used the last of her strength to push the monster's bleeding ravaged corpse off of her own bleeding ravaged but still very much alive body. Her breath came short and jagged, and she blinked away stars as she stared at the ceiling. She heard footsteps, quick, running towards her.

  
"Come on now, Lady Reaper."

Deacon dropped to his knees next to her and gently lifted her head into his lap. His hands were trembling as he yanked a stimpak out of his pack. _Fuck_ she was hit bad. Four gashes, deep and angry, across her shoulder and chest, and probably some internal bleeding as well. Whisper laughed weakly and then choked. Her eyes were unfocused and she turned and spit a mouthful of blood on the floor next to Deacon's boots. Deacon unceremoniously stabbed the stim into her chest, right of center, so the medicine would spread across the claw wounds and her lungs. He would probably still have to use another one near her ribs. Her black bangs were matted to her face with sweat and dirt, and he pushed them aside, letting his hand rest on her forehead. She was cold and clammy.

  
_"Ha ha!"_ she exclaimed, her voice meek and broken and wet. "Take that, God! You're not gettin' me today! Fuck you!"

  
Deacon laughed and wiped away the blood that was dripping out of the corner of her mouth. In his head he was counting backwards from sixty, until he could administer another stim.

  
"Yeah, you tell him, sister! The lady in blue lives to fight another day!"

  
Whisper squeezed her eyes shut as he stabbed another stim into her ribcage, just below her breasts. He discarded both the empty syringes on the ground and kept his hand on her head. Her temperature was improving. Without thinking, he brushed his thumb across her brow, stroking gently, reassuringly. It was intimate, and comforting, to both of them. For a moment they stayed there, still and silent, the hulking mound of deathclaw corpse cooling next to them. The stims stopped the bleeding and dulled the pain, but she would need to see Doctor Sun to dress the wounds and set her bones. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. _In. Out._ Her entire universe converged on the place where Deacon's skin touched hers. She'd started fucking again as soon as she'd gotten her bearings in the Wasteland. Sex was a powerful weapon, and she couldn't afford not to use it. But it was cold, and soulless, and devoid of emotion. It had been so long, _so long,_ since she had felt a genuine caring touch. Somehow, despite the fact that she was lying on the ground broken and bleeding, it _kinda_ made her feel like everything just might be alright. For the first time since… since the war started, even. There was anxiety before the bombs, about the bombs. Since coming out of the Vault, it was constant. It was beyond anxiety. It was fear, dread, _horror,_ with not a moment's respite. Until now. It wasn't that she cared about Deacon so much that his touch made everything alright - she liked him, but hardly knew him. It was just the touch. A physical reminder that somebody had your back. Somebody would care for you when you were hurt. Nicky had always been there for her and she loved him dearly, but he wasn't the touchy type, and usually it was _she_ who ended up caring for _him._ She lay quietly, and relished the moment. Deacon kept her head cradled in his lap, and his fingers found her pulse on her neck. He was quiet, too, and patient. _Caring._

  
Eventually she felt her strength returning, and she cracked open one eye, flashing Deacon a strained toothy grin.

  
"Hey there, bright eyes. How's it hangin'?" He smiled warmly.

  
She gave him a thumbs up. "I _will_ survive."  
"Can you stand?"

  
She nodded, and he helped her to her feet very slowly and very carefully. She probably could've stood on her own, but he kept her arm draped around his shoulders and his arm wrapped around her waist, supporting her weight. Together they took one step, slowly, then another, towards the now accessible door.

  
"Hey, Deacon…" she spoke as they walked.

  
"Hm?"

  
"Remember at the Switchboard, you told me that if I see a Courser, just run?"

  
"Uh, yeah. You're lucky we _didn't_ see one, or we would both be toast. Very crispy, dead toast."

  
She laughed. It was getting stronger, heartier. It was a good sound.

  
"Do you wanna hunt one down and kill it with me?"

  
He skidded to a halt, and they both almost fell over.

  
" _Jesus fucking Christ, woman!_ Do you have a death wish? _Do you?_ Cause as your partner I feel like that's something I should know."

  
"Come on, Deacon! You and me? We can _totally_ take one! And when we do..." her eyes lit up "we'll have a way to get in to the Institute."

  
He blinked as the weight of her words settled over him. If they could actually find a way to get in to the Institute… it would change everything, for the Railroad. Before, it had been some far-fetched pipe dream. Dez is gonna lose it. _God dammit, we've gotta do this. Me and the fucking Grim Reaper, chasing after death._

  
"You know you are the _only_ person in the Commonwealth _crazy_ enough to hunt down a Courser? And I'm the _only_ poor shmuck in the Commonwealth _crazy_ enough to agree to do it with you?"

  
She smiled.

  
"Well then I guess we make a good team."

  
" _Yeah, yeah._ " He sighed. "The best."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join me on [ tumblr ](http://forevermarked.tumblr.com/)


	3. Ritual union

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Whisper has a very strange dream about her life before the war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for very slight pregnancy-related body dysphoria and self harm typical verbiage

 

 

_It was her wedding day._

_She should have felt something. Nervous? Excited? Happy? Instead, she felt nothing. Numb, and a dull queasiness that settled over her like a fog. Her mother fussed over her dress, white lace, prim and proper. She clutched a bouquet of daisies at her waist. The church was small, and sunlight filtered in through stained glass windows, bathing her world in a kaleidoscope. She could only see grey._

_"This doesn't feel right." She looked up at her mother with wide, frightened eyes, as her mother adjusted one of the onyx curls near her face._

_"I know, sweetie. Just pretend." Her mother cooed. "You will be safe, and comfortable, and that's more than any of us can ask for. You have a nice man who is willing to take care of you. How ungrateful could you be, to turn that down?"_

_Leila swallowed and nodded. A seed of panic bloomed in the pit of her stomach as she was ushered through the church by a group of faceless bridesmaids. She didn't know them. They wore blush pink. The pews were lined with Gen 1s, each missing limbs and casings, all exposed wires and strange metal. At the end of one of the rows, closest to the aisle, she spotted a familiar fedora._

_"Nick! Oh my god, Nicky, help me, please. Something's not right here, I'm scared. Help!"_

_The bridesmaids grabbed her arms and began to drag her down the aisle._

_"Wish I could, doll." Nick Valentine took a draw of his cigarette, his yellow eyes gleaming. "You gotta help yourself with this one."_

_She was so frustrated, and so scared, a whimper escaped from her throat and tears stung at her eyes. Every Gen 1 had turned to look at her, their blank faces unblinking and unsettling. Something churned inside of her stomach, pushing on her organs, rolling and twisting. With a shock of horror, she realized it was a fetus. She was pregnant, but it felt more like a parasite. Her legs buckled and she cried out. Standing at the altar was Sheffield, the junkie from Diamond City, in priest's robes. And Nate. She couldn't focus on his face, no matter how hard she tried. It was blurry and made her dizzy. It was flat, one-dimensional. Two black eye holes and a pasted-on grin._

_As she was shoved in to place at the altar, nausea overtook her. She was sure she would be sick… in front of all these people. On her wedding day. Nate reached out to take her trembling hands and she swallowed hard. In the pews, she saw her father. He was in a wheelchair. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes dark._

_"I'm sorry, daddy," she whispered tearfully. "I'm trying."_

_Sheffield cleared his throat._

_"We are gathered here today to - Nuka-Cola? Does anybody have a Nuka-Cola?"_

_"That's not what you're supposed to say!" Leila cried. "Can you hurry up and get to the 'speak now or forever hold your peace' part?!"_

_Sheffield cleared his throat. "Of course. Should anyone here present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace. And if you have a Nuka-Cola, give it to me, please."_

_"Me!" she shouted. "I object!" Suddenly Nate's face came clearly in to focus, and it hurt. Those big brown eyes. He was so sweet, he always had been. She felt her resolve draining. She couldn't hurt him. She would marry him, and have his child, and be perfectly fine. Her mother was right. She was foolish to think she deserved anything more. He was a good man, and she would be a good wife. She opened her mouth to say never mind, to say I do, and suddenly she heard a strange skidding sound._

_Her laser rifle was at her feet. It had been slid along the ground to her. It was so out of place here. She saw the army green casing, and the bright yellow fusion cell loaded in it. Her heart sang at the sight of it, and all the fear and dread and panic melted away. In this place, she had been stripped of power, but now it all came coursing back. It felt like she'd just taken a hit of psycho. Before she could look up to see where the weapon came from, she heard a very familiar voice coming from the church doors._

_"Hey hey, Lady Reaper. What's a girl like you doing in a place like this? I gotta say, though, white is totally your color. It would look even better with some fresh bloodstains. Whaddaya say we go out and make that happen, huh?"_

With a great shuddering gasp, Leila woke up alone in a bed at the Dugout. She was drenched in cold sweat, struggling for breath, her heart racing so fast it was uncomfortable. As her breath came easier and her heart slowed down a little bit, she squeezed her eyes shut and clutched the thin blanket to her chest. _Fuck_. Dreams always knew just where to aim so that it hurt the most. There were things that not a single living soul knew but her, and her subconscious would do it's damned best to remind her of them as frequently as possible. Like that she loved Nate, but she wasn't _in love_ with him. Like that the wedding was rushed because her father was dying. And like that Shaun…. _oh, Shaun_ … she hadn't wanted a baby, at first. All that changed with the first screaming, crying, breath of air he took, but… _oh god_. For a moment she was frozen, immobilized by grief. She'd been pushed into a life that she didn't consider ideal, that she didn't necessarily want… and just as she was growing to truly love it, it had all been snatched away from her. She didn't appreciate it when she'd had it. She certainly didn't deserve it. It was guilt, lead-heavy, that she would carry with her until the day she died.

She lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling, until the grief subsided. The walls everywhere were so thin now, the cold daylight seeped in somehow, despite the fact that there were no windows. She pushed her sweaty bangs back from her forehead and sighed. It was only when she lay still that she could feel the physical toll the Wasteland took on her body. Everything hurt. The ache seeped down to her bones. It was pulsing, throbbing, from her lower back to her feet to her wrists. A raider had slashed her across the face with a broken bottle a while back, and it left a gnarly scar running from her eyebrow to her lip. It was strange, but she didn't mind the scars and the pain. At least when her body hurt it kept her mind from careening off into the deep end - it gave her something to focus on, it grounded her. Plus, she looked pretty great with that scar. Scars inside, scars outside.

" _Jesus christ,_ " she muttered quietly to herself. "Did I just dream about Deacon saving me from my own wedding? That's fucked up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join me on [ tumblr ](http://forevermarked.tumblr.com/)


	4. Never try to trick me with a kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Doctor Carrington is an asshole (what's new?) the Railroad crew kicks back for some leisure time, and Whisper gives Deacon a little something that he isn't used to - honesty

 

"I like this one the best."

Deacon turned around. Whisper was climbing the stairs behind him, looking up at him with an expression that could only be described as salacious. He'd changed his disguise before they'd started scaling the old ruined skyscraper to place Tinker Tom's MILA. Her meaning was clear, and her tone direct. It was the same disguise he'd been wearing when he first met her. Worn jeans, a simple white t-shirt, high-top sneakers, and his good black wig. The cotton of his shirt was light and thin, and she could see the way the muscles in his back shifted underneath it. And yeah, she did like him better with hair, even if she knew it was a wig. _She's checking me out,_ Deacon realized. He felt warmth blooming across his collarbone, and gasped dramatically.

 _"Dear god, Agent!"_ he feigned horror. "You are positively undressing me with your eyes!"

"Yeah." she grinned. "You like it."

He turned around and continued up the rickety iron staircase. The Commonwealth stretched out beneath them, and Deacon's head spun.

"I can neither confirm nor deny that. But your preference is noted - the lady likes the jeans."

It was the first time she openly flirted with him, but very far from the last. She was stalling, he could tell. With the courser. She was scared, and he didn't blame her. _He_ was scared. Together they had elected not to tell Dez what they were going to do - she would either try to stop them or push them into doing it in a way they didn't want to. It was better to just surprise her with the good news - _hey boss! We killed a Courser and got a chip from it's brain that will help us teleport into the Institute! Do you love us?_ Whisper just needed a little time to work up the nerve. He was more than happy to give her as much time as she needed - just the fact that she wanted to do it in the first place was gutsier than just about anything he'd ever done in his lifetime.

So they ran around doing busywork for the Railroad. Important, meaningful busywork. The kind of busywork that saves lives. Enough so Whisper could distract herself but still feel productive, still feel like she was working towards her goal - towards her son. It came up, once. She'd gotten hit pretty bad by some Gen 1s while clearing out Randolph safe house, punctured full of laser burns. _Not so much fun when you're on the other end of a laser rifle, huh, Lady Reaper?_ Despite his poking fun, he rushed her back to HQ. Carrington shook his head as he examined her. Yeah, she'd gotten on his good side by buttering him up, but the Doc was still an asshole who looked down his nose disapprovingly at all the heavies. Deacon could just tell that he was working up some asshole thing to say as he bandaged Whisper up.

"I have to wonder, agent. Your son has been kidnapped, and yet you spend weeks helping us with menial tasks." He said no more, but the implication is clear. _Do you not want to find your son? Do you not care?_

Nobody else but Deacon would've noticed how her jaw tensed just the slightest little bit. She was watching the doctor bandage her left forearm, and she kept her eyes trained downward.

"Hey, Doc." Deacon spoke curtly, his voice firm and razor sharp. "Not cool."

Whisper waved him off. "It's okay, Deacon." She looked up at the doctor with eyes that made Deacon honestly not even mad that she'd shooed him away because she was about to lay one hell of a verbal smackdown on good ol' Doc.

"I thought you were a smart man, Doctor. I'm not entirely sure why you seem to have a hard time understanding why I would help you, an organization that works in opposition to the Institute, in the process of rescuing my son, who was kidnapped _by_ the Institute."

Carrington swallowed and looked like he didn't know where to point his eyes. She kept going.

"The Institute is one of the best kept secrets in the Commonwealth. Even if I knew where it was or how to get there, I wouldn't have the means, and even if I had the means, I would likely be killed before I could even get close - and that helps no one, least of all my son. Helping the Railroad _is_ looking for my son. Everyone else seems to understand that. Perhaps Tinker Tom can help explain it to you?"

It wasn't often that Deacon saw Carrington at a loss for words, but he opened and closed his mouth uselessly like a fish out of water. He was embarrassed and indignantly angry all at once. _Oh yeah, that's some good schadenfreude._ Deacon liked Whisper even more for managing to make Carrington look like an idiot.

"You have no idea what I've been through and what I continue to go through to find my son." Her voice was full of venom and she practically spit the words out. "Watch your tongue." The doctor was halfway through dressing a laser burn, but she yanked her arm back and stalked away, bandages trailing behind her. Deacon was angry, truly, so much so that he didn't even have a sarcastic comment to toss at the Doctor. Just a disgusted glare.

He tried to talk to her about it, later on.

"Hey… I'm sorry. The doctor is an asshole. He really just enjoys pissing people off, and he had no right to say those things to you."

She smiled, trying her hardest to look like she wasn't bothered, but the smile never reached her eyes.

"It's okay, D. He didn't know what he was talking about. Besides, I've kinda been waiting for an opportunity to tear him a new one."

The Doc had touched a nerve, but there was no point in trying to get her to talk about it. _It's okay,_ he wanted to tell her. _Nobody in their right mind would ever doubt your commitment to your son._ Instead, he said nothing.

One of the best things about Whisper was that she was well-liked and well-connected, socially and professionally. She had friends in every city, and she knew how to have a good time. She always had information about some party going on somewhere, or some hot new joint, or some crazy underground ghoul nightclub. It was good, Deacon supposed. For her mental health. Work hard, play hard, and all that. It was especially good now that Dez was realizing that downtime made her agents more effective. She was starting to encourage them to take time off in-between ops, which was really strange coming from her. Before Whisper, this was downtime they would have spent idly putzing around HQ or getting piss drunk. Now… well, there would still be drinking involved, of course. Just… more exciting drinking.

On this particular warm autumn evening, she'd gotten word from one of her caravan buddies that there was to be quite the happening party down in Bunker Hill. This was nice, because it was a relatively short, safe walk from HQ. She put on her nice pink dress with a small 10mm strapped to her thigh underneath, and rounded up all the agents who felt like kicking back a little bit. Really it was her, Deacon, Glory, and Drummer Boy. They walked through the streets after sunset, Whisper and Glory leading with their arms hooked together, and the boys walking behind them.

Glory _loved_ Whisper. Like, majorly. And vice-versa. They were both very badass, sexy, powerful women, so it made sense that they naturally gravitated towards each other. From the beginning, they just had this closeness. Whisper fascinated Glory with all of her battle tales, and there was nobody who could match Whisper's girlish enthusiasm for a fine weapon like Glory could. And when Whisper found out Glory was a synth, she literally did not bat an eye. She treated her no differently, she didn't act strange about it, she simply didn't acknowledge it as any sort of issue worthy of remark. That really endeared Whisper to Glory and everyone at HQ. Synth or not, Glory was a treasured friend, and they were two peas in a pod from day one.

So the girls walked ahead and giggled together and Deacon and Drummer Boy looked at each other grinning and they didn't have to speak to communicate with each other. It was nice. It had been a long time, a _very_ long time, since the streets of Boston had been filled with the laughter of ladies, bright and sweet. Only ladies as deadly as Whisper and Glory could walk at night and laugh so carelessly. It was innocence and violence hand-in-hand. It was the essence of the Wasteland. It was stunning, and Deacon felt his heart lift. The evening was already off to a good start.

Beacon Hill was fuller than he'd ever seen it. The string lights that hung across every high point of the settlement cast it all in a warm, comforting glow. The main square was packed with bodies, the bartender was slinging hooch like a champ, and the air was filled with lively music coming from a brightly colored jukebox in the corner.

"Wow," Deacon chewed on a toothpick idly while taking in the scene. "I didn't even know stuff like this still happened in the Commonwealth."

"The human spirit is pervasive, perhaps most of all in it's desire to party. No nuclear holocaust can stop it." Whisper smiled. She was already starting to move to the music, twirling the hem of her skirt and bouncing on her heels. A tall woman in a straw hat emerged above the crowd, walking towards Whisper. It must have been her caravan friend. Whisper lit up and went to greet the woman. Glory and Drummer Boy hopped over to the bar to get drinks, and Deacon was left to do what he did best: watch.

It was warm, with a cool breeze, and people from all walks of life had gathered here for music, drinks, and dancing. It wasn't often that Deacon got to see this side of the Commonwealth. Normal people, just trying to get by. People who weren't interested in fighting, or dying, or pillaging. Life in the Commonwealth was almost harder if you _didn't_ attach yourself to some cause, some organization, or… raiders. How did you find the will to get up every morning and fight against a world that wanted to kill you for… for _what?_ The mundane struggles of everyday life? Family, kids? He'd wanted those things, once. But he wasn't cut out for it. He admired anyone who was.

The four Railroad agents shared drinks, clinking their classes together and cheering good health. Whiskey relaxed the tensions Whisper carried at the base of her neck, and made her eyes shine so bright it hurt to look directly at them. Just being around Whisper softened Glory's rougher edges, and the liquor helped even more. He'd never seen either one so relaxed, so at ease. Whisper grabbed Glory's hand and pulled her out into the center of the dancefloor, and they lost themselves in joyful movement.

He watched them dance, and all the rads and blood and grime faded away from the world for a moment. Whisper's black bob, thick and shiny, swung around her face as she tossed her head from side to side, eyes closed, smiling, ecstatic. He'd seen the way those eyes scanned a hostile zone in battle, shrewd, perceptive of the smallest hints of danger. He'd seen her snap a man's neck. He'd seen her grin gleefully as a well-aimed frag grenade blew muties into chunks and shreds. She was violent - in a world less cruel, she would've been considered sadistic, probably. But right now, dancing under the string lights with her friend, she looked so innocent, so carefree. Her pink dress twirled around her shapely hips, in hypnotic opposition to the way her body moved. Glory grabbed Whisper's hand, raised her arm, and spun Whisper around. They dissolved into giggles and for a moment, Deacon was staggered. Memories flashed behind his eyelids. Memories of another girl who danced so freely, who laughed so brightly, whose skin was sun-warmed and sweet. _Barbara_. The pain was real, tangible, physical. He gripped the edge of the bar until his knuckles turned white.

"Hey, D." A sweet voice in his ear. His eyes had been squeezed shut so tight that he hadn't noticed Whisper sliding over to him. Glory was still dancing.

"Hey," he smiled weakly. "You girls look like you're having fun."

"Yeah, but we'd be having more fun if you came and danced with us." There was a distinct flirtatious lilt to her words. He swallowed hard.

"Oh no, no, no. You don't want that. See, I'm _way_ too good of a dancer. Like, dangerously good. You see me dance, your head will explode and you'll burst in to flames."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take." Her lips curved into the sweetest smirk. It was clear what was going on. She was testing him, pushing him, dipping her toes in the water of outright flirtation. It was precarious, and exhilarating - her heart was in her throat, and she was sure his was, too.

He knew he shouldn't push back, shouldn't take her bait, especially not with the memory of Barbara so fresh on his mind. As tends to happen when love is blooming, he couldn't stop himself. It just felt _right._ Slowly, deliberately, he brought his hand up and brushed a strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear tenderly.

"Not me." He spoke softly. "That's a real pretty head, and I'd prefer if it stayed intact."

She looked up at him with wide eyes, sweet eyes. They were so close. She hadn't really expected him to take her bait, and if she moved just a little closer she could kiss him, and she was so paralyzed by the urge to do so that she couldn't seem to move at all. _Those damn sunglasses._ She just wanted to look him in the eyes. Delicately, she placed her fingers on the left corner of the frame of the sunglasses and began to lift. Deacon felt like he was in a trance - but not enough to let this happen. _Not the glasses, doll._ Not yet. Before she could lift them, he grabbed her hand and lowered it slowly.

She smiled, like she'd known it was coming. She didn't really expect to separate Deacon from his sunglasses, but she had to try, at least. It was hot, and crowded, and the music was loud and lively, but they hung suspended in gentle still and silence.

"Will you walk with me? I need some fresh air." Her voice seemed very far away, and yet at the same time close enough that he could feel it against his skin.

"Yeah. Fresh air. Fresh, irradiated, nuclear wasteland air. Let's go."

He followed her out the gates of Bunker Hill. Glory made eye contact with him as they left - she had likely been watching them for a while. He couldn't read her expression. Glory was like that. Once they had cleared the gate, Whisper walked for a moment and found a nice low stone wall to sit on.

She smoothed her skirt over her legs as she sat, and reached in to her shirt pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. _Fresh air._ He lit her cigarette for her, shielding it from the wind with his hand, and for a moment they sat in silence. She looked so serene, so unbothered - it was strange. But her every movement carried a meaningful weight, and he had the sense that she had something particular to say to him. Her eyes were open and clear, and he could see depths of vulnerability uncharted.

"I can't stop thinking about what the Doctor said," she laughed and shook her head as though chiding herself for letting it bother her.

 _"Whisper -"_ Deacon interjected, but she wasn't done speaking.

"When I first found out I was pregnant, with Shaun, I… I wasn't happy. I didn't want him. Well, not _him_ specifically, but… a child. I wasn't ready."

Deacon's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

"I already had doubts about Nate, about getting married, about being a… a housewife. He was away when I found out I was pregnant. Deployed, with the Army. I felt so sick, so scared… I cried for days."

Deacon clenched his fist. _I'm going to kick his ass when I get back to HQ._

"It changed, of course. It always does. Just… completely. Shaun grew inside of me and it was like… I loved him _so much_. I knew that no matter what else happened in my life, I would have him. I would be his mom, and he would be my boy. Even if I lost everything else, even if I did end up being unhappy with Nate, Shaun would be mine. My partner in crime. The day he was born… it was the best day of my life."

Smoke rose above her, a delicate plume snaking up to the night sky. She'd never seen the stars like that, before the war. So clear, so vibrant, so _many._ Her voice was the only sound around for miles - the music, the cicadas, gunshots in the distance, nuclear breeze… all faded to nothing beneath the weight of her voice.

"When I first came out of the Vault, I had a breakdown. I mean… what can a person really do, in that situation? The end of the world happened, and I saw it all. My husband was shot, in front of my own eyes, and my son was taken from me. That was the worst part. _They took him from me._ My baby. Who I knew I would always have, no matter what. They were the what. It had seemed more likely to me that the bombs would fall and destroy the world than that my baby would be taken away from me. My brain just couldn't process it, any of it."

A lump rose in his throat, hard and heavy. He knew what happened next, because he had been there. Dez had been tracking some Institute agents on the surface, and discovered they were headed to Vault 111. _Follow them, Deacon. See what they're doing, what they want there. That's your job._ He watched them come in and leave, empty handed both times, with absolutely no clue what they did inside. And then she came. Still thawing out, she rose into the nuclear sunshine via the Vault elevator. He watched her take one step, then another, then she fell on to her knees in the dirt. He heard her scream. Anguished, _raw_ , pure despair. He would never forget that sound, not until the day he died.

"The Vault was so close to my home, to Sanctuary. Somehow, I made it to my old house - instinct or something, I don't know. I don't remember any of that. I went inside, and everything is falling apart - the roof, the walls, all the furniture. I recognize it, but I don't. There's one thing, though. In his room. His crib. It was blue, with a red spaceship mobile. I curled up on the ground by his crib, and I didn't move for days. Probably a whole week."

He had to keep his distance, of course, so he saw her enter the house and stay for a very long while, but he didn't see what happened inside. Probably a good thing. It was bad enough just hearing about it. He felt sick, dizzy, like the ground was churning under his feet.

"I think I was trying to just… let myself die. I didn't sleep, or eat, or move. I just lay there, staring off in to space, _existing_ , and willing myself to disappear. We had a Mr. Handy, Codsworth. He was there, poor guy, he'd been alive and awake the whole 200 years. He tried to get me up, to get me to move, but eventually he gave up. I just didn't respond, to anything. And then, well… nothing happened, really. There was no moment where suddenly I realized I had to get up and get out there, keep fighting, find my son. No vision showed up to speak to me, I wasn't divinely inspired or anything. I just got sick of it. I just stood up, and walked out, and kept walking. Shaun is likely already dead, or worse. I've already accepted that, in my heart. I've already gone through the mourning process. I won't let myself believe that he's still alive… it will just hurt so much more when I find out he isn't. But I have to keep going, I have to keep looking, I have to keep seeking him out. Until I hold his remains in my own two hands, then I'll stop. Because he's _mine_. My partner in crime."

She looked up at him. He was white as a ghost, all the blood drained out of his face.

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you all of this. It's some pretty heavy shit to unload on you. It just feels good to talk to someone about it… or at someone about it. And you're the lucky winner! I just… for Carrington to imply that I don't care about finding Shaun, that I'm not working hard enough… it hurts _so bad_ because I'm scared that it's true."

Before he even realized what he was doing, he'd wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her off the stone wall, bringing her body against his in a crushing embrace. One hand was brought up to hold her cheek, catching ropes of hair in-between grasping fingers, and the other pressed against her back, flat-palm, supporting her and pulling her in deeper all at once. Her cigarette fell to the ground, extinguishing itself in a puddle, and he kissed her. Hard, deep, and hungry. She made a quiet surprised noise, a delicious _mmf,_ more a feeling than a sound into his lips, but there was not a second's hesitation before she returned the fervor of his kiss in equal part. He felt her hands grasping at his back, grabbing handfuls of fabric like she was scared something was going to come and try to pry them apart and drag her away. She tasted like Nuka Cherry and heartache. He was drowning.

It was an instant and an eternity before they broke away, both gasping for air, foreheads pressed together like they didn't really want to separate. How long had it been since his lips had touched another? Even longer for her. Two hundred and ten years since she'd been kissed,  _properly_ kissed. He could feel it. He was still riding the wave of feel-good brain chemicals for a moment longer, and when it let up, he realized what he'd done.

"Woah…" he whispered, taking a step back. "I'm sorry. I didn't… _holy hell_ …"

Her eyes were wide, raptured, as she brought her fingers up to touch her lips like she was making sure they were still there.

"Deacon, it's okay..."

"No," he groaned. "That was _way_ out of line of me to do, for a thousand different reasons. Listen, I just…" he ran his hand through his hair, exasperated. "You've been through a lot, and you're still kicking ass. I've never met anyone… I mean, look, everyone's got some sort of shitty fucked-up past, Lord knows I've been through some shit too…" _(and that's why you can't do this, Deacon, you can't be with her, you can't fall for her)_ "I'm _so_ sorry for what the Doctor said. Seriously, I'm going to kill him when we get back to HQ. He really has no idea what he's talking about. You're so strong, and you've been through so much to find your son, and he _is_ still alive and we _are_ going to find him and you'll be together again. I promise. Just…" he looked down. "Forget about that whole… _thing_ … that just happened with us. Please. I'm sorry."

She closed her eyes, smiled, and shook her head. When she opened her eyes again it was like she was a different person. The veil was back up, and that minuscule razor-sharp edge. All that vulnerability, all that pain - gone, without a trace. _God fucking dammit, Deacon._

"What thing? I don't know what you're talking about." She was smirking and her eyebrow was raised. He sighed. _Yep, that's my girl._

"Well, thanks for coming out here with me. I'm going back in - if you reconsider that whole dancing thing, you'll know where to find me." She was trying hard to sound nonchalant, and it would've been convincing to anyone else. He said nothing, and watched her as she walked back to the gates of Bunker Hill, twirling her skirt and kicking rocks, until he was left alone out in the street with nothing but a deep, gnawing feeling in his chest.

He didn't follow her back inside until much later, and she made a point not to even look at him when he did. Glory knew. Whisper didn't tell her, of course. She was just perceptive, especially when it came to Deacon and Whisper. They left in the wee hours of the morning, and Whisper walked ahead on the way back to HQ, shoulder-to-shoulder with Drummer Boy, singing drunkenly. Glory and Deacon walked behind. She spoke without turning to look at him.

"She makes me feel _human._ Don't hurt her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guh, that was depressing.
> 
> join me on [ tumblr ](http://forevermarked.tumblr.com/)


	5. I should have loved a thunderbird instead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Whisper is scared and Deacon fights his own desires as they prepare to send Whisper in to the Institute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to those who have left kudos and comments thus far. it means a great deal.

 

 He expected more from the courser. He should've known, though, that even things that seem like a literal suicide mission are easy as pie with Whisper by his side. Really, it was harder to fight through the building full of Gunners that preceded the courser. He wasn't that tough, and he had one trick - Stealth Boy. _Come on, man. I invented Stealth Boys! Well, not really, but I might as well have._ They took care of him in short order, and they even helped to free the runaway synth that the courser was after. Whisper pushed the dead courser's head to the side with her boot, and flipped open a switchblade to dig the chip out of his skull. She rose with the chip, dripping with blood and covered in chunks of brain matter, grinning proudly.

"We did it!" She was beaming.

"Yeah, we sure did."

They were right about not telling Desdemona until afterwards. He swore, when Whisper showed up with the chip, Dez looked like she was about to start doing backflips she was so excited. And Tinker Tom could probably smell wires and circuitry, because he was hovering over their shoulders before they could even think _hey, maybe this is something that Tom can help us with._ He could, he explained twitchily, decode the courser chip and provide them with the plans necessary to build the transporter that would use the code from the courser chip to teleport Whisper directly inside of the Institute.

So Whisper, Deacon, Dez, and Tom all travelled to Mercer safehouse. A teeny-tiny settlement very far north, outfitted with only the bare minimum. A concrete bunker, a couple of rickety wooden shacks, beds enough for all of them, and a workbench. They settled in for the long haul - they would stay at Mercer, working on building the transporter, until it was done and they were ready to send Whisper in.

Deacon wasn't thrilled about the prospect of spending weeks in such close quarters with Whisper, not after what had happened at Bunker Hill. He felt sick, dizzy, confused when he remembered how he kissed her under the stars that night. He didn't regret it as much as he should have, and he felt overwhelming guilt. He'd started something that could not be stopped, something that would only end painfully for both of them. If he knew Whisper like he thought he did, she was the type who liked the pain, but still… the poor woman had been through enough already. It seemed like the universe was out to hurt her - and now for him to lay it on, too? Deacon and self-loathing were good old friends, but he hadn't expected to be reacquainted with it so soon.

They didn't spend 100% of their time at Mercer - Whisper would lose it, he thought, if she were forced to stay still in one place for so long. Every so often, Whisper and Deacon dipped out to go gather some components for the transporter, which was a _really_ nice excuse to go out and kill some stuff.

The lie came up as most of his lies do. He could feel himself getting closer to her, in a real, intimate way, and it was oddly aggravating. They were searching for a biometric scanner for the transporter in an old hospital, wasting ferals along the way. He watched her kill, and felt tender affection inside of him like a sickness. He wanted to push her buttons, and push her away at the same time. That was one thing he knew how to do exceedingly well. They were crouched behind a desk, clearing the room ahead.

"In a way, you're lucky, you know."

She popped a fresh fusion cell in her rifle as ferals groaned in the distance. She said nothing, but raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"Some people at HQ are jealous." He spoke as he aimed down his scope. "You took the Big Nap, and everyone you know is long gone." He felt anger radiate from her shoulders. This was cold, even for him, after what she'd told him at Bunker Hill. "Hey - hear me out on the silver lining."

"This had better be some damn good silver lining, D." Her voice was sharp and stretched with tension. _Watch it._

"The Institute is big, and scary, and has eyes everywhere. If a human in the Railroad slips up, they expose friends and loved ones to danger. You're safe from that."

"Yeah, because the Institute already has the one person in this world that I actually care about." _Shaun._ Her partner in crime. "Where are you going with this? Cause all you're doing so far is pissing me off."

"I know, sorry. This is coming out all wrong. All I'm saying is, you have nothing to lose, and that's kinda nice. It doesn't matter so much for me and Glory and all the other synths, but some of the human members of the Railroad, they have to be careful what missions they go on, how close to the Institute they get, otherwise it's their families on the line."

 _Boom._ There it was. He watched her carefully for any movement, any sign, any twitch. Her face was set in stone, unreadable, and singularly focused on killing ferals. A rotting hand reached out to grasp for his throat and he realized that he should probably be more focused on killing ferals too, not watching Whisper for a hint of a reaction to his lie. For a while they fought in silence, rotting ghoul corpses piling up at their feet.

Her laser rifle was still smoking, Vault suit and leathers splattered with hot blood, when she turned to him after the last feral tanked. She was gasping for breath, her chest heaving, exhausted from combat.

"Are you telling me that you're a synth?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry, I know I should have told you sooner, I just -"

She held up her hand, cutting him off. Her gaze was very intense, but otherwise unreadable.

"No. You don't have any obligation to share that information with anyone, not even me. You have never had any responsibility to tell me, not now or ever. It doesn't change anything." The kiss at Bunker Hill flashed through his mind, and he was sure it did hers, too. Her voice softened. "But… I appreciate that you did. Thank you."

"Well, aren't you gracious. Now I know why Glory likes you so much. There's one more thing… since we're partners, you should have this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny, folded scrap of paper. None of his lies ever came without preparation or forethought… or props. He liked props. "It's my recall code."

Just the fact that the Institute gave synths recall codes was proof enough that they were evil, in Whisper's book. A single phrase to shut a person down, to wipe them clean, to render them catatonic. It was inhumane, worse than death. She looked at the paper in his outstretched hand, and then looked up at him.

_"No."_

"Look, I know it's not pretty, but you need to have it. It's an issue of safety. For you, for me, for the whole Railroad. Take it."

He brandished the scrap of paper, and she still did not reach out for it.

"Deacon, I don't want it. There is no scenario in which I would ever use it. I'll wring your neck with my own two hands before I do that to you."

"That's selfish. Using it could save lives."

She knew he was right, he saw it in her eyes. She was angry, and confused, and hurting. The thought of actually using a recall code, on Deacon of all people, made her nauseous. But neither was she irresponsible enough to risk the lives of potentially everyone in the Railroad. He had her wedged firmly in-between a rock and a hard place. He saw her struggle, he saw her pain, and knew the lie had done it's job. For him, at least. _You're a sick fuck, Deacon. You get off on this._

 _"Fine,"_ she hissed, and snatched the paper from his hand. He watched her crush it in her fingers and shove it unceremoniously in to one of the leather pouches on her belt. He'd never seen her angrier, and it felt good. Her cheeks burned and her eyes sparkled, and _god damn_ she looked good. She turned away, cold and silent and steaming. They recovered the biometric scanner and traveled back to Mercer in their first ever _un_ comfortable silence.

He couldn't have picked a worse (or better, if you've got as strong of a self-destructive streak as Deacon does) time to fuck with her. If she had been scared before, about the courser, it was nothing compared to how scared she was now. She didn't sleep - he knew, cause their beds were separated by a 'wall' of thin wooden planks cobbled together, and he could hear her tossing and turning all night (cause of course, he wasn't sleeping either.) She didn't seem to eat much. Her cheeks sunk in on themselves, her eye sockets grew dark and shadowed. They were building a massive transporter to quite literally send her in to the belly of the beast. Nobody could guess what awaited her there. Some sort of truth about her son was guaranteed, and Deacon could tell she was scared of what she would find either way. She couldn't let herself hope that Shaun was alive, but he would catch her gazing idly at the transporter and chewing on her lip as tears welled in her eyes. She wasn't really prepared to face and accept the reality of his death. Besides that, there was a very good chance she would be transported inside the Institute and never come back at all. Death or torture likely awaited her there. Even if Shaun was alive, they probably wouldn't just let her walk out with him. There really _was_ no good outcome, but she had to do it, she had to try. For her little boy.

Deacon kept hoping, in the back of his mind, that something would go wrong with the transporter and _oops never mind the thing is broken looks like we're not sending you to the inside of the Institute after all_! Dez, too, he could tell, was torn between the excitement of actually sending someone inside and the dread of potentially, likely, losing her newest and best agent. And Tinker Tom, damn him, kept right on plugging along with all of his wires and circuits and chem-twitch until finally, one cool evening, he announced excitedly that the hulking beast of a machine would be ready to use by morning.

Whisper walked out into the fields surrounding Mercer, alone, and Deacon could see the light of her Pip-Boy like a bright star in the night. She was recording holotapes, in case she didn't come back. One for Nick, and one for Glory. None for Deacon, of course. She would give the tapes to Desdemona. Deacon could still get his hands on them if he wanted to - which he did, because he was a scumbag. Then he watched Whisper sit down, cross-legged in the tall grass. She was listening to a holotape this time, not recording one. Deacon could hear the faint sounds of a baby cooing, and he knew what it was she was listening to.

They all went to bed early that night. Bed, not sleep. Whisper didn't toss and turn, she was still, but he could tell she wasn't asleep. He could especially tell she wasn't asleep when he heard the mattress creak and her feet hit the ground lightly. It felt like some ghostly hand reached inside Deacon's chest and squeezed tight whatever it could grab ahold of - he couldn't breathe, and his heart stopped. She stood in his doorway, backlit by the moon, and spoke like her name.

_"D, you awake?"_

Wordlessly, he rolled over and lifted up the tattered quilt, making room for her beside him on the bed. Even after deliberately trying to push her away, she still came to him. He wouldn't fight it. Not now. _Not tonight._ Honestly, _he_ probably needed the comfort more than _she_ did. Whisper was strong, Whisper was steel. Whisper walked over, blind in the dark, and slid under the covers next to him. She was wearing nothing but an oversized cotton t-shirt, and he could feel the silk of her skin as she came up against him. She made herself small, curling up in to the solid mass of his chest, and buried her face into his shirt. Every movement was weak, trembling. She didn't have to speak for him to feel her fear.

 _"Hey,"_ he whispered, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her hair reassuringly. "Listen, you're gonna be fine. I've never met anyone tougher than you. Those goons at the Institute oughtta be shaking in their boots right now cause they have no idea what's coming for them tomorrow."

She chuckled, weakly, and he could feel the sound vibrate deep within him. He knew what she was thinking, knew what she was feeling. He knew what she needed to hear, and he was gonna tell her, even if they both knew it was all lies. The least he could do was lie for good.

"And you're gonna find Shaun, and he's gonna be _so_ happy to see you." He felt her body relax a little bit more with each word. She sighed.

"Bring an extra gun for him. The kid's gonna be a natural shot. You two'll pump the Institute full of holes on your way out."

She laughed, her fingers digging into the thin cotton of his t-shirt. She looked up at him. For the first time, she saw him without his sunglasses on, though it was too dark to make out much. What she could see looked like a different man. Deacon with his glasses was slick, unreadable, a _spy_. Deacon without his glasses was… kind, and _very_ weary. Just a man. She understood why he wore them all the time, she didn't blame him. They suited him. But she couldn't stop herself from reaching up to brush her fingers gently along his temple. He was quiet, and very still. It seemed that he was surprised, but more with himself than with her.

"If I don't come back…"

"You will." Their bodies were flush, but he squeezed her tight like he was trying to pull her in even closer. She didn't believe him - he didn't believe him - but it was nice to hear it, anyway.

"I can't forget about it. The kiss."

"I know." As he said the words, he felt the strangest feeling inside of his chest. Like his heart was sinking and being lifted up at the same time, pulled in two separate directions, struggling and straining both ways. "Me either."

He knew then, like he'd known when he kissed her, like he'd known when he first saw her, that he could try to fight it all he wanted, but it was inevitable. He would try to fight it, kicking and screaming and gnashing teeth because he wasn't the type to go down easy, but nothing he could do would stem the tide of this. He wasn't ready for it, so he would lie to her and treat her bad and light up a thousand neon _I'M FUCKED UP, YOU DO NOT WANT THIS_ warning signs, but the proof was in the pudding. _Hello, words. I'm actions, and I'm speaking awfully loud._ He was the one who grabbed her and kissed her. He was the one who invited her in to bed - he could've pretended to be asleep, he could've got up and talked to her, but instead she was in his arms because that was what _he_ wanted. And when he didn't want it, or he wanted it too much, he would become _very_ unavailable to her - a process he'd already put in motion. _This is gonna get messy, Whisper, and I'm sorry._

Blessedly, she said nothing else, and he listened to her breathing slow down steadily until he could tell she was asleep. It was the first decent night's sleep either of them had gotten since they'd come to Mercer. When he woke in the morning, she was no longer in his bed. She was downstairs, with Dez, drinking coffee out of a tin mug and smoking a cigarette. Whisper was tense, wound so tight. Her foot tapped nervously and her mouth was drawn into a hard line. Deacon muttered a sleepy good morning at the two girls, and went to help Tinker Tom. The chems fueled his genius but also caused him to make the occasional stupid mistake, and nobody wanted Whisper being transported into outer space or splattered across the Institute in little molecular chunks. The machine was ready, and appeared to be in good condition.

As the sun rose, the four gathered around the transporter platform. Whisper was wearing her Vault suit, and had her laser rifle strapped to her back, a 10mm on her thigh and a switchblade in her boot. It was more to make her feel better - if the Institute wanted to kill her, none of those weapons would save her. She stepped on to the platform, Dez watching carefully, Tom fiddling with the knobs on the control panel.

"Whenever you're ready, agent. Tune your radio to the classical music station."

They'd discovered that the classical music radio station was the conduit for the transporter signal. The Institute had a nice sense for dramatic flair, at least. Deacon saw Whisper swallow, hard, raise her Pip-Boy, and turn the radio knob. Dramatic orchestral swings swelled, and Tom powered up the machine.

Electricity crackled at Whisper's boots, great white-blue arcs of it lapping around her legs, sparking and twisting and cutting. A fine halo of frizzy black hairs began to rise around her head and her eyes grew wide, lit from beneath with that eerie blue glow. Dez was talking to her, shouting instructions and important reminders and boss-stuff over the low roar of the electricity and machinery. Whisper wasn't looking at Dez. Whisper had her eyes locked on to Deacon, desperate, holding on for dear life. She looked so scared, god she looked so scared. Instinctively, he took a step towards her, towards the transporter platform. He could feel the electricity crackling on his skin, taste it sharp and metallic on his tongue. The transporter filled him with overwhelming, oppressive noise. He had to clench his fists at his side to stop himself from reaching out for her, grabbing her, pulling her off the platform and into the safety of his arms. _Whisper is strong. Whisper is steel._ She didn't look like steel, not right now. A low hum began to radiate out from the transporter platform, more a mighty vibration that shook the ground than an actual sound. She still hadn't taken her eyes off of him. He was her lifeline. Up until the last minute, she was fixed on him, holding on to him. A massive tidal wave of energy, frothing and swirling, rose up from her feet. Her eyes were wilder and more desperate than ever, and at the last moment, she opened her mouth like she wanted to say something. The wave swept her away, a loud crack echoing throughout the valley, and she was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join me on [ tumblr ](http://forevermarked.tumblr.com/)


	6. Madraykin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Whisper comes back from the Institute broken by what she found there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW drug use
> 
> my infinite thanks once again to those who have left comments and kudos. Special thanks to PostApocalypticPrincess for sharing my fic with others. It means a lot, and I really appreciate it, each and every one. <3

 

_"Hey Nicky. It's me, your girl Blue. If you're listening to this, it means something happened to me at the Institute and I didn't come back. I wanted to leave you a message to tell you that I love you, so much. You were the first person, the only person, willing to go out of their way to help me when I got out of the Vault. There are no words for how much it means to me, everything you've done. Don't put up with too much crap from those bigots in Diamond CIty. They don't deserve to have you. Never let anyone make you believe that you aren't good, that you aren't doing good. God, Nicky, you do nothing but good. The 'Wealth is a better place because you're in it. Give Ellie my best. I'll miss you, and I love you."'_

Deacon sat silent, sick. He'd pilfered the tapes from Desdemona's desk and dipped out of HQ to find a quiet place with a working terminal.He'd already planned on listening to the tapes as soon as he saw Whisper recording them (he liked to know people's secrets, hers especially,) but he hadn't anticipated this horrible gnawing hunger to just hear her voice. That's all. He just _needed_ to hear her voice. It had been five days, but it felt like a lifetime. Had it ever been any different than this? Was there ever a time where she was here, with him, her voice vibrating through his bones and not coming out of a terminal? _I am so fucked if she doesn't come back. And I am so fucked if she does._ He ejected Nick's tape, and popped in Glory's.

 _"Hey Glory, it's Whisper. I'm sure you know what happened by now. I'm so sorry. I failed you all, and I'm so sorry. Thank you for placing your trust in me, thank you for having faith in me. And thank you, Glory, for being my friend. I never had many of those, even before the war. You are so special, and such an incredible person. You can shake the whole Commonwealth. You are a force. Don't make yourself smaller, not for anyone. I'll miss you, but I'm sure I'll still be able to hear your minigun wherever it is that I am, and it will make everything better. You are my sister, forever. Tell everyone back at HQ that I'm sorry, and tell Deacon…"_ for a moment her voice cracked, faltered, like she couldn't find the words. Deacon felt the ground drop out from underneath him. _"… tell him thanks, for me? For being a good partner, and always having my back. Thanks, Glory. I love you. Bye."_

He returned the tapes to Dez's desk. Whisper had left most of her belongings in a footlocker at HQ, only taking the bare necessities with her on the transporter. He began frantically rifling through her things, searching for that little tiny scrap of paper. His 'recall code.' She hadn't read it yet, there was no way. He would find it and get rid it of before she could, and tell her the truth, that he lied and he had no idea why and he was so sorry and by the way I think I'm falling in love with you but I have like 12 tons of emotional baggage also I'm a pathological liar can you handle that? But he lost momentum the further he got in his search. It wasn't there, the recall code. She'd either thrown it away, or taken it with her. In all the literally countless lies he'd ever told, he'd never regretted one or wished he could take it back. Not until now. He sighed and sat back on his heels. _You made this bed, Deacon._

Soon, it had been a week since she'd left. He was drinking, a lot. If he wasn't working, he was drinking. It was the only way he could get to sleep - drink himself in to a stupor and pass out. Otherwise he just lay there, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, filled with her and a thousand different anxieties. She'll come back, right? She has to come back. She's the rogue variable. The woman out of time. She's done a thousand un-doable things and emerged beaming gorgeous. This was no different, this couldn't be any different. Every night, the world blurred to nothing in a drunken haze, he lay lifeless trying so hard to smother himself in the tactile memories of her he had. He gathered up every sensation from every moment he'd physically touched her and drowned himself in them, honing his entire universe down into a laser-focus on the little things. The rise and fall of her chest as she slept against him. The taut curve where waist expanded to hips, and the way it felt beneath his hands. The taste of her lips (Nuka Cherry and heartache) and the smell of her hair, sweet and gentle. The blood - _god_ , all the blood. Was that like, an intimacy thing? He felt like it was. To see someone's blood, the vitality that fills their veins and runs from the deepest recesses of their heart to the tips of their fingers and toes, to feel the warmth of it on your hands… even her blood would be welcome now. And every so often, in these inebriated twilight moments, tactile memories of another girl slipped in, a girl who'd come before and was no more. That was usually when he had to stumble outside to be sick.

Thirteen days. Thirteen long, horrible days, and finally a runner stumbled in to HQ, breathless and disheveled.

"Goodneighbor," they gasped. "Someone saw her in Goodneighbor."

Deacon and Glory locked eyes, and no two people had ever leaped out of their chairs and rocketed out the door faster. He heard a strange buzzing in his ears, a pressure building between his temples.

"Something's wrong, Glory." They traveled through the streets to Goodneighbor as fast as they could, guns drawn, tense and frantic nervous. "What's she doing there? Why didn't she come to us first?"

"I don't know. It's not like her. Let's find her so we can get this figured out."

Daisy had seen Whisper enter Goodneighbor two days ago, but that was all the info the ghoul had. Charlie hadn't seen her. At the Rexford, Clair Hutchins stared up with them at that same old sour face she always had.

"Don't know her. Haven't seen her. Even if I had, I can't just go around giving out information about my clients to strangers."

Deacon was just about to lose it and snap on the old woman when Fred Allen called out from the lobby behind them.

"Hey! You guys looking for the pretty girl in blue?"

The chem dealer strolled over. Deacon blinked. There was no reason for _him_ to have any intel on Whisper, but he wasn't about to turn it down.

"Yes. Have you seen her?"

"Yeah, she bought some Jet from me yesterday. Think she has a room upstairs."

"Fred," Deacon spoke low and sharp, a vein throbbing in his forehead. "No offense, but… are you high right now? She doesn't really buy chems. Are you _sure_ it was her?"

Fred rolled his eyes. "No, I'm not high, and yes, I'm sure. You don't' forget a lady like that. And for someone who doesn't really buy chems, she sure was, uh, buying chems."

Deacon had never felt more tightly wound in his life. He stalked back over to the front desk, and Clair looked exactly like someone who had just been caught in a lie.

"Look, lady. That guy over there just told me that the woman I'm looking for has a room here. I don't know what you want. Do you want caps? I'll give you caps," he dug frantically in his pocket and dumped a pouch of caps onto the counter. 150, maybe 200. "We're not strangers, we're her friends and she needs us, she could be hurt or sick. And we are both _very_ heavily armed so I _strongly_ suggest you take these _fucking_ caps and tell us where she's at."

Glory blinked. Deacon wasn't an angry person, by nature. She'd never seen him like this. Clair scowled and slid the caps off the counter in to her hand.

"Fine. Top floor, first room on the right."

They bounded up the stairs. Everything was grey in this godforsaken hotel. The walls were grey, the floors were grey, the light was grey. It was just fucking drab and it made him feel queasy and he hurt to think of Whisper here, alone, hurt and scared and… and _using?_ Deacon didn't like chems, just because he'd seen how they could rip a person up, change them completely, steal their entire life away. Whisper agreed with him, he knew, and he'd never seen her use, not even a hit of Med-X when her injuries were bad. She liked to _feel,_ everything, as much as she could, even if it was pain. Whatever had happened to her inside the Institute… she really wanted to forget it. She wanted to fry her brain, smash it in to tiny pieces, obliterate the trauma that played itself over and over again behind her eyelids. Anything else that got lost in the process, well, it was an acceptable causality _. God, please let her bounce back from this. Please let her still be my Whisper._ He fumbled with the doorknob. His hands were shaking.

The room was empty, dark, and cold. There was a candle stump on the dresser, but it had long ago burned out. There were signs of life in the room - the bedclothes had been disturbed, a leather pack was tossed on the worn red sofa (Whisper's pack,) and a pair of boots lay unlaced near the door (Whisper's boots) along with her precious laser rifle. But no Whisper.

 _"Oh my god,"_ Glory breathed. He heard her gun drop to the rickety wooden floor, and he followed her gaze. What he saw sucked all the air out of the room.

Whisper was sitting on the floor, wedged firmly in the small space between the dresser and the sofa. Her knees were pulled in close to her chest and her head hung limply over her left shoulder, strands of tangled and torn black hair falling over her face like a curtain. She'd unzipped her Vault suit's collar - her collarbones and neck appeared emaciated, dry, hollow. Her skin was grey, just like everything in the damned hotel. A handful of discarded inhalers lay on the ground next to her.

 _"Oh my god, Whisper, no…"_ Glory ran over and dropped to her knees next to Whisper. Whisper appeared unresponsive - her eyes were open, heavy-lidded, glazed over. She wasn't seeing. The lights were on - but the windows were boarded, the floorboards ripped up, the insides ransacked, and nobody had been home for a long while.

 _"Hey, hey, hey,"_ Glory grabbed Whisper's hand, using her thumb to grab a pulse, and gently slapped her cheek. "Whisper, baby, it's me, Glory. Can you hear me? Come on, _come on_..." She grabbed her face and pushed one of her eyelids up. Whisper's eyes were bloodshot, the whites a sick yellow. Glory put her ear to Whisper's chest, to listen to her breathing.

Deacon had been clenching his fists so hard that his nails were digging in to his palms, drawing blood. He was angry. Angry with the Institute, for whatever the fuck they did to turn the Lady Reaper in to this shriveled husk. Angry with the Railroad, for sending her in there with little-to-no concern for her well-being. Angry with Whisper for using, though of course he didn't blame her, he couldn't. Mostly he was angry with himself for letting this happen. _You're supposed to protect the people you care about._ There were a thousand different things he could've done, a thousand opportunities for him to step in and stop it from coming to this, mitigate the harm. Even as he thought that, he knew it wasn't true. She would've had to go to the Institute eventually to find her son. It didn't make him any less angry. They could have done more. The rage boiled over in him and before he knew what was happening he'd punched a hole clean through the decrepit wall next to him.

The sound seemed to bring Whisper back to Earth. She gasped like she'd been underwater and was just coming up for air, and life returned to her eyes. The first thing she saw was Glory. Her eyes were big and scared and skittish, like a wild animal. It took a moment for her mind to register what her eyes were seeing, and when she did, that's when the tears came.

Glory threw her arms around her friend, and Whisper sobbed into Glory's shoulder. _Shh, shh,_ Glory stroked Whisper's hair, holding her tight and rocking her gently. Deacon had never seen someone cry like that. It was the sound of a soul that had been sundered. Raw anguish, childlike, and the sound cut through to his bones. He felt distinctly uncomfortable, nauseous, like he was seeing something he shouldn't be seeing. Whisper's hands clawed up Glory's back to grab fistfuls of her jacket, and through the sobs, words emerged.

_Not my son… not my son… not my son…_

Glory looked back at him. "Go get Dr. Amari. We need her help."

While Deacon hurried across the street to the Memory Den, Glory helped Whisper in to bed. The crying gave way to sniffles and hiccups, and Glory stroked her forehead gently and held her trembling hands. Neither spoke. Just quiet, and rest, and healing.

Deacon returned with Dr. Amari in short order. Amari had helped Whisper before - she was all too familiar with what the woman from Vault 111 had endured during her short time in the Commonwealth, and eager to assist. She hooked Whisper up to an IV drip, for the dehydration and to flush the drugs out, and alternated administration of Stimpaks and Addictol. Whisper was quiet and still. She appeared very tired, now that the drugs were leaving her system. Jet doesn't allow for much sleep.

"Has she ever used before?" Amari asked, looking over her shoulder at the two Railroad agents who had huddled together, tense.

"No," Glory spoke. "Never. We would know."

"She'll be okay, right?" When Deacon had punched the wall, the skin on his knuckles had torn. He felt no pain, but blood dripped down his fingertips.

"Physically? Yes, thanks to you two. Mentally, emotionally? Time will tell. It's not likely, but it is possible that this bender could have a lasting effect on her brain. Not to mention whatever it was that drove her to this." Amari looked down at her patient, eyes full of pity. "Poor thing. She's endured so much already… honestly, I'm surprised she didn't turn to chems sooner."

The color was returning to Whisper's skin, slowly but surely. She slipped into sleep, and Amari packed up and left, leaving instructions and supplies for her continued care. Rest was what she needed the most now, the doctor explained. That much was obvious - Whisper slept for nine hours, and neither Glory nor Deacon left the hotel room. Hours blurred together in a gentle haze - they turned the radio on quietly, played card games on the floor next to her bed, took turns watching over Whisper and napping on the couch. When Deacon was alone by her bed and Glory was asleep, he felt like he should say something, but no words came out. He just wanted her to open her eyes, to smile, _hey D._ He just wanted her back. All the lies, all of his stupid mental bullshit, his hang-ups and his baggage and his relentless drive for self-destruction… it was all pushed very very far away in those nine hours. He bandaged up his knuckles and prayed.

The sun was just beginning to rise when she awoke. She didn't speak - Glory and Deacon could sense her stirring, they could sense the shift in her energy, and they were at her bedside. When she opened her eyes and looked at him, a wave of relief washed over him. She was all there. She was herself. A little worse for wear, but she was herself. The first words out of her mouth were _I'm so sorry._

"This was so selfish of me. I should've come straight back to HQ. I've wasted everyone's time." her voice was weak, and filled with truest remorse.

 _"No,"_ Glory said emphatically, squeezing Whisper's hand. "No intel is worth your emotional well-being. I know how horrible the Institute is, Whisper. First-hand. I'm so sorry for what you endured there. Are you ready to talk about it?"

Whisper drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded.

"I don't… I don't know where to start. Well… when I was in the Vault, when Kellogg came and took Shaun and killed Nate… they re-froze me, after that. I thought it was only for a while. 10 years, maybe, and that Shaun was still a kid." Her voice cracked and tears spilled from her eyes. "It wasn't 10 years. It was 60."

Deacon felt his stomach drop. _Oh… oh no._ Whisper sniffled and attempted to stem the tears with the corner of the blanket.

"Shaun is there." Her voice was thick. "He's there, and he's…. old. He's grown up. All grown up. I missed it all, g _od,_ I missed his whole life."

 _"Fuck…"_ Deacon muttered. She finally found him, her boy, her partner in crime, and he'd lived his whole life without her.

Whisper shook her head. "He's also… um…. he's the Director of the Institute. They call him Father."

 _Oh._ The room filled with a heavy silence. _Well._

"He's a monster," she spoke quietly, her eyes fixed pointedly down at her own hands. "He's a genius, but… he's a monster. Speaking to him, looking in his eyes, he's just…. chilling. I mean he has to be, to be the leader of an organization like that. I just can't believe it. I can't believe my little boy is all grown up and this is what he became. It's so much worse than I imagined. If he was still a boy at least I would have a chance to be his mother, to see him grow, to be with him… they took even that away from me. They killed him, and turned him in to… _that_."

"I don't know what to say." Glory spoke in hushed tones. "That's… that's horrible. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. It is. It's also a really big advantage for us. He knows who I am. He knows I've been coming. But he doesn't know I'm with the Railroad. He wants me to… to help him. To work for him, for them, the Institute. I can be on the inside, for us. I can be a double agent."

"Are you kidding?" Deacon laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. "Whisper, look at the state you're in. One trip to the inside and you go off on a Jet bender that would make Hancock proud. I know you're strong, but are you sure you can handle that?" He was trying to spin it away from sympathy, trying to avoid showing his ass too much. There was more he didn't say. _I don't want to see you hurt like this ever, ever again._

Whisper glared up at him darkly, from shadowed eye sockets. "Hey, Glory? Would you mind giving me and Deacon a moment alone?"

Glory shot Deacon an angry look. _I told you not to hurt her, you asshole._ But she left the room, because her friend asked her to, and went to wait outside in the hallway. Deacon tried to get the first word in.

"Listen, Whisper, I -"

"I didn't want to read it." She cut him off. "I didn't even want to _have_ it in the first place, for fuck's sake. The only reason I took it is because you manipulated me in to it."

He swallowed, hard. _Busted._

"I didn't want to read it, but… it was so awful in there, you have no idea, I was so scared and so alone. They showed me how they make them, how they make synths… _god,_ I'll never forget that, I'll never be able to unsee it, and… I just couldn't stop thinking about you. Sometimes it was all that would get me through the night. I knew if I could just get through it, I could get out and see you again." She laughed bitterly, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. "I thought… that little scrap of paper, it was all I had of you. I slept with it under my pillow, I toyed with it in my pocket when I had to sit and listen to the sick things Father said. And then… it just got so dark… I thought if I looked at it, if I read it, even though I didn't want to, I could feel closer to you somehow. I was so desperate for something, _anything._ I'm such a _fucking_ idiot."

Deacon lied, a lot. It was kind of a defining characteristic of him as a person. Never before had he felt so small, so low, so absolutely shitty when caught in one of his lies.

"Listen, I-"

 _"Please,_ spare me the bullshit. If you're just going to lie to me more, _leave._ I just want to know why you did it."

How did she tower over him, broken and battered lying in bed? How was she so powerful, so forceful, so beautiful, with her eyelashes crusted together with tear-salt coming down from a Jet bender that almost killed her? He was helpless in her wake.

"You'e special." He spoke softly. "That's weird for me. I haven't known anyone special in a long time. And I'm a piece of shit. I lie. A lot. Indiscriminately, to everyone, no matter how special they are. I just want you to know that you can't trust me, so it doesn't hurt as bad when I let you down."

He watched the scar that cut through the left side of her face distort and crinkle as she furrowed her eyebrows, incredulous.

"You don't have to do this, Deacon. Not with me. Don't you understand? When I say I… I have feelings for you… I'm not talking about some fake idealized version of you. I'm talking about the you who fights by my side, who laughs with me, who held me at Mercer that night before I left. There's something _real_ here."

"Yeah, I know." His mouth set in a hard line. "But there can't be. You don't understand, I'm not fit for it."

"That's not your decision to make, Deacon."

For a moment he was silent, torn in two. She was right, of course, she was always right. Her persistence was both incredible and frustrating. Here he was, trying to do everything to push her away, and she was still trying to fight for him. After all she'd been through, seeing her like this… he wanted her, to hold her and never let go, to cover every inch of her skin with the warmth of his lips, to undo all the pain she'd endured. He was trapped, backed into a corner, and like an injured animal he would lash out when all he needed was care and tenderness.

"I'm sorry, Whisper. This can't happen. _It won't._ " He was firm, perhaps firmer than he'd like, his words sharpened to an edge by the hurt he was feeling, on her behalf and his own. He watched her face fall, from disbelief to understanding to heartbreak to cold, leaden anger.

"Okay, fine. I get it. " Her voice was hoarse. "It's forgotten. Don't worry. Anyway, I'm… I'm going back inside. I'm going to keep working with them, and you don't have to worry about me. I won't be using again, _ever._ This was horrible."

"I know, I'm sorry. That was out of line for me to say. You're the strongest person I know, you can handle anything. But this… this is gonna be hard, and it's gonna take a lot out of you, Whisper. It's not just having to go back. You have to work with them, to agree with the things they say, to help them. You have to become one of them. You have to lie to them, consistently, so completely that you convince yourself its the truth too. Otherwise you could slip up, and then we're all finished. Can you do that?"

She looked up at him with a glint of steel in her eyes. "Do what? Lie? Of course I can. I learned from the best."

Deacon laughed bitterly. "It's good to see the Jet didn't fry away that cutting wit of yours. I deserved that, I did. Now, uh… how are you feeling? Up for the trip back to HQ? Dez misses you something fierce. Don't tell her, but I read her diary, she writes about it every day. _Dear diary, when is Whisper coming home? I miss her so_!"

Whisper scoffed. "Yeah, I think I've had just about enough of wallowing in despair and feeling sorry for myself. We've got serious work to do."

Glory and Deacon helped Whisper up and out of the Rexford. She was still weak, but on the up. Glory supported her friend's weight, helping her walk. Deacon tried to do the same, but Whisper waved him away and bade him carry her pack and gun instead. _Oh, so what am I, just a pack brahmin?_ He joked, but as he walked behind the two girls back to HQ, he felt some sort of darkness gnawing at his insides. He couldn't help but feel like he'd just made a horrible mistake - he knew it was just a knee-jerk reaction, just a reflex, just his heart refusing to give up without a fight. He'd done the right thing. He had to have done the right thing. She was better off without him, she was too good, she deserved better. He watched her walk, and his mind was filled with a dazzling slideshow of images. All those memories he'd held so close while she was gone. Other things… memories that hadn't been made yet. Things that could have been. If he hadn't turned her away. He saw laughter, and love. He saw their lips touch a thousand times, the tender warmth in her eyes when she looked at him. He saw the scars and burns that adorned her body, _felt_ them under his fingertips, her skin sweat-slick in the depths of darkest passion, not just the body bared but the _soul_. He saw pain, too. Screaming matches, broken glass. Lies and bitter disappointment, her shoulders shaking as she cried and he couldn't help because it was his fault she was crying, a thousand times over and over again. It wasn't worth it. The good was beautiful, _god_ he wanted it more than anything, but the bad was unbearable. If the good never came to pass, if all those gorgeous possibilities stayed possibilities unfulfilled, it would be worth it if it meant he never had to see her hurt like that at his hands.

 _You did the right thing, D. You did the right thing._ He repeated it in his head like a mantra, trying to convince himself it was true.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join me on [ tumblr ](forevermarked.tumblr.com)


	7. A better resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Whisper has a funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following two chapters were originally one chapter that I split in two because it didn't quite flow right. That means the next chapter is almost done, so expect it shortly. Thanks again for your continued support and readership, it means a lot <3

 

_I have no wit, I have no words, no tears;_  
 _My heart within me like a stone_  
 _Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;_  
 _Look right, look left, I dwell alone;_  
 _A lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief_  
 _No everlasting hills I see;_  
 _My life is like the falling leaf;_  
 _O Jesus, quicken me._  
Sylvia Plath, A Better Resurrection

  
Glory woke him up early the next morning, kicking him in the side with her boot.

"Deacon, get up."

He groaned and rolled over. He'd been having a good dream, he wasn't ready for the real world yet. But Glory was relentless, pushing and prodding. He sat up, glaring at her.

"What the hell do you want?" His words were sleepy, lazy, blurred together.

"Get up. We have something important to do."

Begrudgingly, up and dressed, he let Glory lead him out of HQ. The streets of Boston were quiet, unusually so, no mutants or raiders, no gunshots or explosions. The sun was only just beginning to peek over the horizon with some trepidation. Shyly, it warmed the cool blue light of morning, dusting the edges of metal skeletons of buildings and cars with it's lush pink-orange. The air was cold and crisp, and everything carried some strange weight of import. This hour always felt somehow gentle, forgiving, reparative, sore eyes after crying crinkling with laughter again. He was moved to silence behind Glory's heavy footsteps.

He followed her and never asked where they were going. He didn't think they had anything on the agenda this morning, but schedules were nebulous and constantly changing in the Railroad. There was no hour of the day when someone didn't need their help. Besides, he wasn't awake enough to care. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He'd been trying to drink less, since Whisper came back, but it wasn't easy. It felt like nothing had changed.

Glory was leading him to the water. There was, not far from HQ, a small park on the waterfront, with many bleached wooden trellises from which hung dead branches and leafless ropes of ivy. They sheltered a winding stone-paved path, and on both sides were scattered about picnic tables and playground equipment. Before the bombs, families had come here, and children would play while their parents walked hand-in-hand up and down the shaded path. Now, wild mutfruit grew and withered skeletons littered the park. Across the water, the old Boston Airport's four-legged tower rose.

As they got closer, walking under the trellises, Deacon saw two figures standing near the water, and he was awake enough to be confused now. This wasn't official business. One of the figures was Nick - no one in the Commonwealth wore a fedora and trench coat quite like he did. The other was Whisper. Lately she didn't really eat much. Her form was whittled down to something sharp and lean, strikingly slender. When she'd come back, she'd taken off her Vault suit and put it away. Tinker Tom worked with her on something new to wear. They'd pilfered a Brotherhood of Steel flight suit, sleek black made of a strong synthetic weave resistant to tearing or pulling. Tom fitted it with a ballistic weave underlay, to give extra protection against bullets and switchblades and nail-boards, and she wore it tight to her figure underneath black leather armor. She looked more like the Grim Reaper than ever, and every bit the spy. He wanted her more and more every day. _You can't have her, Deacon._

Whisper heard their footsteps and turned to look over her shoulder. Her eyes were tired, rimmed in red, and sad. In front of them, in the water, a rickety rowboat was chained to the docks. On it was a large mound covered in a white sheet. It was Nate's body. She'd returned to the Vault with Nick and a brahmin to recover it from the cyro pod. To lay him to rest properly. On top of the mound, carefully arranged, her Vault suit folded, two wedding rings, a holotape, and a little red rocket from Shaun's crib mobile. _Oh. This is a funeral._ Deacon was suddenly very, very awake.

"Hey," she smiled at Glory weakly. "Thanks for coming. You too, D," she nodded at Deacon. Nick watched on, smoking a cigarette.

"Of course," Glory responded. "This is important."

A cool salt breeze blew in off the water, and there was something in the air that felt almost reverent. Whisper picked up a gas canister that sat on the ground near her feet and began to carefully pour it on top of the contents of the rowboat. She lit a match and tossed it atop the mound, and as it burst in to flames, Nick leaned forward and carefully unhooked it from the dock. Whisper stood very still and watched the funeral pyre crackle to life as the boat slowly drifted away from the dock.

"We are gathered here today," she spoke shakily "to remember a family torn apart by war, like so many other countless families were."

"We remember Nate. A soldier, who served his country bravely. A loving father and husband. Nate had… many good qualities." Her voice cracked. "He was sweet, and wholesome, and always acted with the purest of intentions. He worked hard to support his wife and child. He deserved better. Better than a wife who didn't love him with her whole heart. Better than a country that threw his life away so easily. He will be missed."

Deacon watched, and listened, and it was not lost on him that perhaps he should use this moment to mourn his own lost spouse. He didn't know if he was ready yet, ready to let go. Whisper was stronger than him, she always had been.

"We remember Leila." With a jolt, Deacon realized Whisper was talking about herself. That must have been her real name. Leila. He'd never heard a name like that before. She would always be Whisper to him. "Leila worked hard to make her parents proud. She worked full-time and went to law school. She was a devoted wife and mother, who put her professional dreams on hold for the sake of her family. She loved her son very much. She could have loved her husband more. There's no one left to miss her, but that's okay." She reached for Nick's metal hand, and squeezed it so tightly that it dug in to her palm. The pain was welcome. She closed her eyes, and bid farewell to her former self.

"We remember Shaun." The funeral pyre lit Whisper's face from beneath, her brown eyes alight with honey-amber and shimmering with tears. "An innocent child, who had his life taken from him while he was still an infant. He could have grown up to be someone great. He was his mother's entire universe. She would have done anything to protect him, and will do anything to avenge him." With the last words, her voice hardened itself to a frighteningly sharp edge.

They all stood in silence, watching the pyre burn as it floated out into the water towards the old Boston Airport. Some others may not understand it - having a funeral for two people who were still technically alive. The three of her friends, though - they knew exactly why this strange ceremony was necessary. Whisper had been to the Institute and found her son a _very_ grown man and the most sworn enemy of herself and the Railroad. Her son, a man who led a massive organization that created synthetic humans, gave them thoughts and feelings and dreams, and then regarded them as nothing but objects, slaves to be abused for their own means. Deacon had been working with her long enough, he knew that she was _very_ dedicated to the cause - even more than he'd thought, apparently. She firmly believed, with her whole heart, that the Institute was evil and tyrannical. _Now_ she believed that they'd stolen her son from her in the worst way. It would have been better if he were dead. Now, she would have to fight him, work against him, in the most insidious manner. An all-out war, straightforward, would be so much easier on her, mentally and emotionally. But espionage would be a thousand times more effective. For what she was about to do… her son _had_ to be dead to her, and she couldn't kill him without killing herself as well.

That man, Father - he wasn't her son, he wasn't Shaun. She hadn't raised him, she hadn't loved him, she hadn't helped him grow. The Institute had taken that from her. Father had taken that from her. It was a strange sort of paradox, but somehow it made perfect sense to Deacon. And he felt for her, _bad._ She'd endured so much already. Her little breakdown after returning from the Institute was… far less than he would've expected from any normal person. Whisper was incredible, and so strong, and she seemed determined to make him fall more and more in love with her now that he'd told her firmly there would be no romantic future for them. He watched her fold her hands and bow her head, eyes closed. He heard her voice echoing in the back of his mind, from that night at Bunker Hill. _I knew that no matter what else happened in my life, I would have him._ He knew she was mourning Shaun, then, in that moment. She'd lost her son, and any hopes she'd had of finding him and having any sort of meaningful relationship with him were forcefully dashed, taken out back and shot in the head. It was a mercy killing, to minimize her own suffering. This was how far she was willing to go. This was how hard she was willing to fight. A gust of wind rushed past her, picking up inky tendrils of her hair and sending them floating about her cheekbones. She inhaled, like the wind was filling her up, and once again the urge to reach out and touch her was almost overwhelming. He lowered his head respectfully as the solemn silence pressed down upon them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join me on [ tumblr ](forevermarked.tumblr.com)


	8. Rather be a bandit than a lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Deacon gets Whisper a confusing present, and Whisper meets a mungo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks once again to everyone who has left kudos, comments, or bookmarked my story. I appreciate your support so much. <3

 When most people have a funeral, you get them flowers. There weren't many flowers in the Wasteland nowadays, plus there was too much potential for them to be misinterpreted as romantic, and he didn't want that _(right? didn't he?)_ especially after that _very_ painful conversation at the Rexford. He still had this strange urge to do something for her, to give her some thing to show that he cared. Many social customs had been lost to the atom bombs, but people still gave each other gifts - it just wasn't as common, because nothing was as plentiful in the Wasteland. For her, it would be worth it. She wasn't the same after she came back, and it wasn't the Jet. She was hurting, bad, for a thousand different reasons. She was colder, quieter, her eyes further and further away. He was still addicted to her smile - bright, vivacious, whenever it came out it lit up the whole room and reminded him that there was still good in this world. He didn't get to see it as often now. If he could get her something, some token of friendship, something to mend their broken ties, something to make her smile…. well, it would be a gift for himself, as well.

So he went to Arturo, because the Lady Reaper loved her guns. Guns were _way_ better than flowers.

"Deacon, buddy!" Arturo greeted him warmly, and they shook hands over the counter of Commonwealth Weaponry. Arturo was a friend of the Railroad, and Deacon and Whisper were there several times a week buying ammo and repairing their guns. "Where's the old lady?"

Of course, Deacon and Whisper were together so often that it was strange for Arturo to see either one alone.

"Actually, I'm here shopping for her. She's been, uh, kinda down lately, and I was looking to get her a present. Something to make her feel better."

Arturo raised his eyebrows "Ohhh, I see. A present for the girl, eh?" Deacon didn't have the heart or energy to explain to Arturo that it wasn't like that, not even a little, but _oh hell maybe it was, who even knows anymore?_ "She's got that, uh, laser rifle she likes, right? You ever thought about plasma? If she likes the laser, she'll love plasma."

So Arturo drew up plans for a custom modified plasma rifle, with a boosted photon agitator and a long recon scope. Since working with Deacon, Whisper's fighting style had changed. She still wasn't patient enough for a sniper rifle, but no longer did she charge in to battle haphazardly. She was learning, growing. Now she liked to stalk her prey, to remain hidden and quiet, observing the battlefield, calculating risk and advantage until the exact best moment to strike. More like a panther than ever, shiny black hair and lean black limbs and a hunter's instincts. This new rifle would be good for her, to hunt with. It took Arturo a few days to build it. At Deacon's request, on the barrel, Arturo engraved and then enameled the words _LADY REAPER_ in intimidating red script - Deacon's nickname for her. It was a scary looking gun - made just for her, and perfect.

He found her back at HQ, talking to Carrington about Blackbird. Carrington had never formally apologized for being such an asshole to Whisper, but he'd learned his lesson from the verbal lashing she'd given him. She and Dez were the only people who didn't get any lip from him. _That_ was impressive. Deacon rolled in to HQ lugging a big gun case, and didn't have to announce his arrival. People got excited about guns, and every head turned excitedly in his direction.

Whisper was standing with her hands on her hips talking to Carrington, and she turned to look at Deacon as he entered. He'd been watching her like a hawk lately, studying her keenly at every moment, searching for some sort of spark or reaction, for her to look at him the way she used to. But she was good. She looked at him with blank eyes, still waters, and if she still held any sort of feelings for him, she didn't show it.

"New gun, D?" She asked nonchalantly.

"Yep," Deacon grunted as he hauled the gun case up onto the great circular stone tablet that Dez ran missions from. A small crowd gathered behind him, clamoring to see the shiny new weapon. "But it's not for me."

"Who's it for, then?" Drummer Boy peered excitedly over Deacon's shoulder. Deacon flipped open the case's latches with his thumbs, and pushed up the lid. The crowd gasped, and hushed exclamations could be heard. _Holy shit - that's gorgeous - what a fucking gun._

"It's for her," Deacon nodded up at Whisper with a grin. She'd been pretending not to be interested, keeping her body turned towards Carrington, but she perked up visibly then.

"For me?" She walked over, surprised and curious. The gaggle of agents behind Deacon parted to make way for her, and when she stood next to him and saw what was in the case, she inhaled sharply.

"Holy shit, Deacon," she breathed. Her eyes were wide as saucers, full of awe, burning bright like the lights of Diamond City. She reached out to touch the gun, run her fingers gently over the pumps and tubes and luminescent green. When her fingers trailed down to the barrel and across the custom engraving, she smiled up at Deacon. _Yep. There it is. That smile._

"But why?" Her voice was filled with dismay.

"Cause you deserve it." He realized that he was gazing at her with most abject adoration, and quickly deflected. "Plus, uh, you're gonna need a better gun if you're gonna be fighting the Big Bads."

She picked up the weapon, gingerly, as though she were afraid it weren't real and would disappear in a poof at any moment. She examined the loading mechanism and the trigger, held it cocked in her elbow, felt it's measures and it's weight.

"This must have cost you a fortune."

Deacon shrugged. "It was worth it," and again with the deflection. "I mean, this is an investment in my own future, too. We work together, so the better armed you are, the better my chances of survival."

Dez was watching on with a smile. Glory was standing with her arms crossed, glaring at Deacon and shaking her head. She knew exactly what was going on, she had since Bunker Hill. Whisper wasn't talking to her about what was happening with Deacon, though she would have been well within her rights to. Glory was just that perceptive. Deacon had ensnared her, turned her down, and was trying to keep her on the line. Whether _he_ knew that's what he was doing or not, Glory knew. Agents were crowding around Whisper, trying to get a closer look, reaching out to touch the gun. He hadn't meant to cause a scene. He just wanted to make Whisper smile. Now, he wanted to be alone with her. To bask in her good spirits, an opiate in all-too short supply lately.

"I saw some raiders kickin' around not too far from HQ. Wanna go give this thing a spin?"

_"Yes!"_

A half-dozen of them, she slaughtered with childlike glee. Arturo was right - the plasma was just like a laser, but better. She actually yelped with joy when one of the raiders was melted into a pile of green plasma-goo. Hot blood splattered across her face, and her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were sparkling and she looked _alive_ again (oh, the irony.) It was the happiest he'd seen her since before Mercer. He felt warmth rush through him. He'd gotten his fix - and like any good drug, once the high dissipated, the coldness of reality stung even harder. A sinking feeling of guilt. _You're just making this worse for yourself, Deacon. You can't drag this on forever. It's not fair._

As he was coming down, she discarded a spent plasma cartridge and brushed her hair out of her face. She turned to him, chest heaving, and grinned.

"This is amazing. Thanks, D."

He was dazzled, and he shook his head. "It's the least I can do for a friend. And, uh, my condolences. You know, for your loss. I know what it feels like." There was perhaps more emphasis on the word _friend_ than he intended, and the rest of his words came out with a bitterness he did not expect and could not stem.

There were lots of things that kept Whisper up at night, and Deacon had always been one of them, but now moreso than ever. She couldn't deny that she was hurt by what had happened at the Rexford. It wasn't often that she was taken for a fool like that - she'd honestly thought there had been some real connection between them, but apparently she'd been mistaken. He was gracious enough to not be overtly cold to her, so their day-to-day interactions were more or less the same, but all the closeness, all the intimacy they shared, was gone without a trace. It hurt, but it was nothing she couldn't survive - Whisper wasn't the type of girl to let a man get her down. If he doesn't want you, pack up with your dignity and leave him alone because there are a thousand other men who do. But now? Now she was just confused. The gun was an _incredibly_ thoughtful gift, and neither professional or platonic. The way he'd looked at her when she picked it up… like there was nothing else in the world he wanted other than to see her smile. It stopped her heart cold, and made her feel weak in the knees, and the more she thought about it the more it made her _angry,_ and confused. He had no business looking at her like that, not after what he'd said at the Rexford. At his own insistence, she had just been starting to move on - she tried to bury her feelings for him during that funeral, too, but when seeds are buried they still sprout. Now he was watering them. _Why? If you don't want me, leave me be._

It was around 1am when she gave up on trying to sleep, and got out of bed. There was an aggravation, a sickly twinge, something that burned her throat and squirmed just beneath her skin. For now, at least, all the big stuff was pushed to the back of her mind - Father, the Institute, the Railroad, the looming threat of the Brotherhood of Steel - she was propelled forward by the most basic restlessness. Like something was behind her, poking and prodding, not threatening enough for her to run but annoying enough for her to want to get away. Her feet carried her up at out of HQ, with her new plasma rifle strapped to her back, while everyone else was asleep. The night was cool and dark, and she walked without quite knowing where she was going. The streets of Boston no longer scared her, for she'd already been to hell and she had some crazy new firepower, and so she moved without fear. She didn't even know what she was searching for, but she figured she would know when she saw it. Each time she turned a corner, her heart lilted ever-so-slightly, like she would find it there.

She found herself in Goodneighbor. This was a city that came alive in the hours when night melted in to morning. Neighborhood Watchmen patrolled the streets, glaring threateningly at the drunks and chem-heads who stumbled around. A blonde ghoul drifter lounged lazily on a bench in front of the Memory Den, smoking a cigarette, and festive music floated gently out of the Third Rail. Whisper didn't know where to go, or what to do. It was as though she'd reached a dead end. Her feet had carried her this far, but they were still now. She felt the red lights of the Rexford behind her… she would always hate that place. Memories of that day came rushing through her, and her feet took her to the bar.

Charlie was always glad to see her, and before she could even ask for it, a glass of whiskey sat on the bar in front of her. She plucked the glass up between her fingers and swirled it, watching the slightly vicious amber liquid rise to coat the walls. It burned on it's way down, and steadied her. She lit a cigarette and fiddled with her Pip Boy, going over work notes, as Magnolia crooned and the crowd bustled. One of the Third Rail employees was sweeping the floor behind her. She heard footsteps, two sets, heavy clanging guns n' bullets. Armed and dangerous footsteps. Her ears perked up, active listening, but she stayed still.

_More of you mercs looking for MacCready? He's in the back room._

The footsteps traveled back and to the left. When they were out of earshot Whisper snubbed out her cigarette, slid quietly off her barstool and followed the mercenaries to the back room - casually, quietly, carefully. She waited in the hallway, and caught snippets of a threatening conversation.

_In case you forgot, I left the Gunners for good._

_Yeah, we heard. But you're still taking jobs in the Commonwealth. That isn't going to work for us._

_Body full of bullets… war with Goodneighbor… play the game… operating in Gunner territory…_

She only heard bits and pieces, but enough to bring a distasteful scowl to her face. She _hated_ the Gunners. They were no better than raiders, but thought they were, and that made them both dangerous _and_ annoying. The two men left the back room and passed Whisper in the hallway. They glared, and she glared back twice as mean. She watched their backs through the bar and up the stairs, and then she entered the room they'd just left to see the man they'd been talking to.

He was lanky, vibrating with nervous energy, not quite pacing but not standing still either. Lean limbs were outfitted in various repurposed military gear, all shades of khaki and green, with bullets bandoliered across his chest and thighs. His coloring was swarthy, and a thin beard accented his angular jawline. From beneath the brim of a hat with two bullets in it, he looked up at her with angry eyes. She felt a wave of relief, the itch at the back of her skull ceded at last.

"Look, lady," the man sighed and rolled his eyes. "If you're preaching about the Atom, or looking for a friend, you've got the wrong guy. If you need a hired gun, then maybe we can talk."

Whisper laughed, high and clear like a bell.

"Do I _look_ like a holy woman?"

He looked her up and down, his eyes flitting from her black boots to her shiny black hair and every curvy black inch in between.

"No."

"And do I _look_ like I'm looking for a friend?" She took a step towards him, confident, and her voice lilted in a distinctly flirtatious way. He swallowed, hard, his eyes fixating on her cherry-painted pout. Not many women wore makeup these days. He liked it.

"… no."

She smiled up from beneath thick black eyelashes.

"You got a name?"

"MacCready." He eyed her warily.

"Were those guys bothering you, MacCready? Fuckin' Gunners. I hate them."

He almost smiled.

"Yeah. Used to run with them cause the money was good, now I'm goin' solo and they don't like it."

" _Mmm_ , jealous bastards."

He did smile that time, a roguish half-grin.

"What about you? You got a name?"

"Whisper."

"That your real name?"

"Yes."

She was standing very close to him now. He could smell her, cigarettes and soap and rain on warm pavement. The scent of a woman… it had been a long time. One of the lapels of his jacket was crooked, tattered khaki fabric torn and burned. She reached forward with graceful fingers and straightened it, looking him dead in the eyes the entire time. Usually someone he'd just met getting this close to him, touching him… he'd have broken every one of their fingers. She knew it, too. She could feel his energy - skittish, afraid, like a wild animal. Whether this move was to dominate, or to tame, even she wasn't sure. Whatever it was - it worked. He met her with the most intense stare, but didn't move as she brought her hand to rest flat on his chest.

"250 caps. Up front. No room for negotiation." His voice was low, tenuous.

Whisper fished a pouch of caps out of her belt and shoved it in to his hands.

"You're hired." She turned on her heel and began to leave the room without looking behind her, expecting him to follow.

"Hey!" he shouted. "This is only 200. I said 250."

Whisper looked back over her shoulder, perched in the doorway.

"Okay then, you're _not_ hired."

MacCready's cheeks burned indignantly as he weighed his options. He could stay here, rotting away in the dim dark of this back room of this shitty bar. Or he could take 50 less caps and go with this beautiful, _magnetic_ woman in black with a badass fucking plasma rifle strapped to her back. With a groan, he pocketed the caps and followed her out of the Third Rail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are about to get dark, and smutty (yeees,) and not particularly nice for MacCready. you have been warned.
> 
> join me on [ tumblr ](forevermarked.tumblr.com)


	9. Nude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Deacon is a peeping tom (NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up, this chapter is smut. Smutty smut smut. If you don't like smut you can easily skip it. There is nothing of merit or substance besides smut. And, uh, I've never really written smut before, so... god help us all. Thanks again to everyone who has been reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. I appreciate it so very much. 
> 
> [ title song/ recommended listening. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ky1td3_6LY) don't usually bother with stuff like this, but in this case...

 

  _The big three for predicting people: caps, beliefs, and ego. Get a handle on what's driving someone and you know where you stand._

Deacon had told her that, one night, as they passed a bottle of bourbon back and forth, huddled together in the broken-down skeleton of a building in Boston. So many nights they'd spent together, sleeping in shifts or not at all, as they traveled the Commonwealth in their tireless fight against the Institute. Whisper still looked back on those nights fondly, but she wasn't sure how much longer that would be the case, so she cherished the memories while she could. Besides, Deacon had taught her many valuable lessons, both with his words and with his actions. That particular lesson about reading people was proving to be _very_ useful at present time.

It was one of the reasons she liked MacCready so much. He was simple. Easy to read. At least, for her. MacCready was all about caps - and caps were, as so often is the case, inextricably tied to ego. There was no measure of worth for MacCready other than caps. No better way to feed his ego. It was good for her, now, traveling with a money-minded man. She was saving up, for a house in Diamond City. She was putting down roots. For a long time she had avoided giving her life in the Commonwealth too much permanence - keeping her options open, keeping one eye fixed on the future. It wasn't forever. After she rescued her son, they would leave this horrible place, find somewhere nice and safe to make a new life. That delusion was laid to rest now. She would die here in the Commonwealth, and she might as well have a comfortable place to sleep and store her belongings until then.

For a few weeks, she divided her time three ways. Undercover at the Institute, running missions for the Railroad with Deacon, and doing mercenary work and odd jobs with MacCready. She would come back from the Institute, skittish and tired with shadows under her eyes, get blind-drunk and sleep for twelve hours, sometimes more. _I can't sleep there,_ she told Deacon. _It's too quiet, too clean. No raiders, no mutants, but I'd feel safer sleeping on the streets of Boston. It's horrible._ After she woke up, she and Deacon hit the field, placing MILAs and securing caches and helping move synths through Ticon. Whisper had worked hard before, but she worked twice as hard now. Deacon could tell that she felt guilty - even though her undercover work with the Institute was to the end result of bringing them down, it was still killing her soul bit by bit. So she came back and did good work, to undo the bad, and Deacon tried his best to soothe the frazzled edges of her consciousness. For a while it worked - his jokes, his easy charm and good-natured wit, their effortless chemistry and banter. She smiled again, laughed again, and it seemed for a moment that the weight of the world _wasn't_ on her shoulders. But then a tipping point, and all that good went sour, because she was smiling and laughing at the grace of a man whom she loved but couldn't have. That's when she went to Goodneighbor, where MacCready waited for her. Dez didn't mind - Whisper was working harder than ever in the time she did spend with the Railroad, and they had no claim to 100% of her time and energy. If one of her best agents needed to step away for a few days at a time in order to continue being one of her best agents, it was all part of standard operating costs. Deacon hated it, of course, but couldn't - _wouldn't_ \- say anything.

He started to say something, once. They were picking up a dead drop, and it came out before he could stop it.

"So… you're runnin' with MacCready now?"

"Yes." She spoke curtly, glaring, a thousand more words ready on her tongue to be flung like weapons, daring him to say more. _Is that a problem for you? You don't want me but no one else can have me either?_ But he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of taking her bait. He just smiled and nodded.

"Hear he's a good shot."

He was so _fucking_ frustrating.

MacCready was easy for her to read, and easy for her to play. Their relationship had been sexually charged since their first meeting, at her urging. She didn't need a hired gun, and it didn't take MacCready long to realize that. Whatever she wanted him around for, it wasn't his gun, and he wasn't sure he minded either way. They shared a common language - violence - and if he didn't already want her just based on the pure sex she oozed, he would have after the first time he saw her fight. _Jeez lady, you're one heck of a shot._ Spent plasma cartridges splashed into the puddle of blood at her feet. _In more ways than one, RJ._ He didn't like to tell people his first name, but she'd asked like it was an order and not a question. She left no room for 'no,' not with him. Maybe she didn't have that power with Deacon, but she had it with MacCready, and she used it at every opportunity.

Deacon followed them, of course. He'd met MacCready before, and he didn't particularly like him. Mercenary work was a valid occupation in the Wasteland, but MacCready was…. rough. Unrefined. Whisper had subtleties that MacCready would _never_ be able to appreciate - but then again, that was probably one of the things she liked about him. A more complicated man, smarter and more perceptive, like Deacon… would only hurt her. _Had_ only hurt her. Simple was easy and easy was painless, and Deacon knew he was _way_ out of line to be worried about the men Whisper chose to be with after he'd rejected her, but… he couldn't help himself. So he followed them, keeping his distance. He felt he had a _right_ to see her, to watch her, even when she wasn't with him, because she was _his_ even though she wasn't because he didn't want her to be but he did want _her._ He did. It was getting harder and harder to push that down. Besides, following people was kinda his thing. It brought him back to a simpler time, when he'd tailed Whisper before she'd come to the Railroad. Before he'd kissed her, before he'd touched her, before he'd lied to her. He followed her at a far enough distance to not be detected by MacCready. But Whisper was good, and she knew his ways. She spotted his sunglasses in the distance early on. When she realized he was following her, warmth bloomed inside of her.

She and MacCready had a corner room at the Rexford for in-between jobs. She was reclaiming that space from the negative memories. When she was there with Mac, she didn't think about the Jet, or about the bitterness in Deacon's voice when he said _no._ Usually they stumbled in too drunk and covered in blood to do much of anything before passing out. It was just a place to rest her head, not much time spent awake and wallowing in the past. This particular evening they had spent clearing Triggermen out of the Goodneighbor warehouses for Charlie. Easy, violent, and mostly-righteous work. Keeping the streets of Goodneighbor free from organized crime, and filling their pockets with caps in the process. When they made their way back to the hotel, they were both in good spirits, and MacCready wrapped an arm around Whisper's waist. Deacon watched them go inside, had a cigarette, and then went and bought a room on the same floor. The walls in the Rexford were old, dilapidated, falling apart, riddled with holes. He would be nearby, near enough to know what was going on, but he _wouldn't_ look into their room. He wouldn't.

Well, his resolve lasted all of fifteen minutes. He should have known better than to tell himself he wouldn't. He knew what was happening in that room, and he just… he didn't want to see it, but he didn't want to _not_ see it more. _You're sick. You're fucking sick._ He mentally berated himself as he crept through the dark hallway. The wall panels were falling away around the corner from the door of their room. Soft yellow lamplight filtered through a skeleton of pipes and structural beams. Deacon drew in a deep, shaky breath, and looked inside.

Whisper was perched atop the dresser, completely naked, MacCready on his knees in front of her with his head buried between her legs. Deacon felt the world lurch beneath him. He'd imagined her naked many times, but the reality was _so_ much more… complex… than his mind ever could have conjured. There were no angels singing, no golden light. Just her body, exposed, _nude_ , in painfully sharp detail. Her ribs were a hollow cage, giving way in the center to a soft little depression of flesh that fluttered as she gasped and moaned. There was a burn that wrapped around the right side of her ribcage, and the puckered flesh only accentuated how tight the skin stretched across the bones. She rolled her hips, wide bones, grinding herself against MacCready's mouth. Her breasts were small and soft, and a deep scar ran down the center of her sternum. More scars laced her left shoulder - he'd been there for those. The deathclaw at Augusta. Her skin was dark sweet tawny and covered in a soft dusting of fine, light hairs. Deacon watched as she rolled her head back, laced her fingers through MacCready's hair, pulled hard, and squeezed his head between her thighs. Lean muscles shifted, and Deacon felt something twist deep in his core. He imagined the taste of her, what it was like to bury your face in the crux of her womanhood, how heat would emanate from her core as she came beneath your tongue. Suddenly a cry rang out, bright, more surprised than anything, and her back arched as she did just that.

Deacon saw the way her toes curled as MacCready stood up and she kissed him hungrily. He was naked from the waist up, just as much skin and bones as she was. Whisper reached down and deftly undid his buckle and zipper, taking his length into her hand and stroking gently. No fingers ever looked so graceful wrapped around a cock. Deacon was hard himself, so hard it _hurt,_ but his hands stayed firmly planted on the wall. MacCready pushed Whisper's legs apart, and the two of them shuddered in unison as he entered her. The way she looked up at him… _my god_. It was the way every woman should look at the man who was fucking her. Like he was the moon and stars, like all that existed in her universe was the way he filled her and penetrated clear to her darkest depths. MacCready groaned and buried his face in the crook of her neck. Her breasts bounced and the dresser creaked as her fucked her. Every thrust elicited a new and wondrous sound from her throat, a moan that changed in timbre or a breathless gasp or rapt mutterings of _oh god_ and _yes._ Each sound traveled deep into Deacon's core, and tightened the knot that festered there. _Desire_ was too pale a word. He'd never wanted anything, he never would again, not while he still wanted _her_ because he wanted her with all the capacity to want he had within him. And he didn't deserve her, so he wouldn't let himself have her.

Suddenly MacCready pulled away, grabbed her, slid her off the dresser and turned her around. With a firm hand on her upper back, he bent her over and began to fuck her from behind. His fingers dug in to her hips, one of the few places where her body was soft, and animalistic grunts mingled with the raw smack of flesh-on-flesh. Her own lipstick was smudged across her cheek, streaks of black eyeliner trailing down her face. All her ornamentation, brought to shreds in the heat of the moment. _Fuck._ She was positioned precariously close to the hole in the wall, now, and of course there was something, some sort of reflection of the lamplight off his sunglasses, and she saw him. Breathlessly, she laughed, bit her bottom lip, shook her head. Like she'd just discovered something horribly amusing. Knowing that he was watching… her stomach flipped and she leapt a great deal closer to orgasm. She arched her back a little harder, moaned a little louder. Deacon swallowed, hard. She was _showing off_ for him. MacCready didn't know - the force and speed of his thrusts increased steadily. The dresser was shaking violently beneath them, drawers sliding open and closed, the back of it clanging against the wall. Whisper gripped the edge of it, white-knuckled, her moans rising in pitch and tone, faster and higher, like she was asking a question. _Fuck, RJ… oh my god, oh my god, I'm gonna come…_ she kept her eyes locked on to Deacon. He saw it happen. He saw the whites of her eyes as they rolled back. Her saw her feet slip, her legs shake, nothing holding her up but MacCready's firm grip on her hips. She gasped, her breath snatched out of her lungs, more an absence of sound, like she was suffocating. Time slowed, for Deacon. There was nothing but this moment. Nothing but Whisper, convulsing as she came, and Deacon watching her. Somewhere in the background, blurry and muted, MacCready pulled out and finished on the small of her back. Whisper didn't move, bent over the dresser, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath. Her eyes were alight with something so brilliant - something numinous. She was _moved._ He was moved. This all made some strange sort of sense. He was too stupid, too much of a coward, to ever be able to actually make love to her. But he had _always_ been watching her. Always. This was how it had to happen.

MacCready flopped down on the bed and lit a cigarette, a post-coital ritual that would survive a thousand atom bombs. He murmured some satisfied urgings for Whisper to come join him, but she was cleaning herself up and getting dressed. She couldn't lie still with him after that. Every cell in her body was vibrating, screaming with some exalted energy. There had been a revelation. She needed air, a crowd, a drink. She should have been angry. She should have felt humiliated, violated. Instead, she was exhilarated, and she needed to walk with it. Later that night, in the privacy of his room, Deacon came violently into his own hands and knew, through starry eyes and ringing ears, that he couldn't go on like this much longer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join me on [ tumblr ](forevermarked.tumblr.com)


	10. Bad Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one struggles with letting go, and another doesn't struggle with it at all 
> 
> [ title song/recommended listening ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UAbeY6HTd8Q)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, so sorry for such a long lapse without an update. won't happen again - I promise. thanks to anyone who has still stuck around <3 appreciate you.

 

  
Whisper and MacCready sat with their legs dangling over the edge of the Mass Pike Interchange. The ground was hundreds of feet below, and the entirety of the Commonwealth stretched out beyond. She could see Trinity Tower, the lights of Diamond City, a sea of scrawny black tree husks. It was cold and dark, and the bodies of a dozen Gunners cooled behind them - including Winlock and Barnes, the men who had been harassing MacCready when she'd first met him. Her fingers were covered in blood as she raised a cigarette to her lips.

"You didn't have to do this for me, you know."

"Didn't do it for you. I told you I hated the Gunners, very first day I met you. Besides, what they were doing to you… I couldn't stand by and let that happen. A man has a right to leave his past behind."

MacCready shot her a look, affectionate but annoyed.

"You stuck your neck out for me. You didn't have to do that. That's -"

"Pragmatic, RJ." She took a deep drag, tobacco and paper crackling audibly as they burned. "I know you won't forget what I did. The more friends you have in this world, the longer you live. People get so caught up watching their own back, never helping anyone but themselves, but that can just make things harder. At a certain point, it's a matter of practicality."

Her eyes were very far away, focused on the horizon, and belied no warmth or affection. She didn't help him because she cared about him. She helped him because it was _practical._ He looked at her, scarred beauty, and couldn't help but feel sentimental even as she was actively trying to distance herself from him. The truth was she had a point, a point that he in particular needed to heed. If there was any way to get MacCready to realize the merits of altruism… for a strange moment, his hardest wasteland-hewn edges softened, and he reached out to lay his hand gently on top of Whisper's. She was still as stone, and bright orange ember-sparks fell down into the darkness below.

"I have a son, you know." He spoke softly. "Had a wife, too, before… well, before she died. _Lucy._ Son's name is Duncan. He's… he's sick. Got him a safe place to stay down south. It's why I came here, to the Commonwealth… to try and find him a cure."

Whisper was quiet, for a long moment, and let MacCready's hand rest on top of hers. When she finally spoke, she kept her face turned away.

"How close are you? To finding a cure?"

"Close. My trail is leading me to Med-Tek. I think it's there."

A cold wind bit through her knit and leathers, and she shivered. MacCready had only ever served one purpose in her life. Even when she fucked him, it was all for the sake of another man. She wanted him around - for her pride, for her vanity, for her incessant need to be in control of a man - but she didn't want to care about him. She had no choice, now. Everything made sense. He was likely only such a capmongerer because he was sending money back to his son's caretakers. If there was one thing she could relate to… if there was one thing that could make her admire a person… he was _just like her_. In that instant, he was cast in a new light.

"Can I help you?" There was a weight to her voice, a reluctant resignation. He looked up at her with a jolt, surprised she was even offering. It was more than he expected from her - and he hadn't told her to try and guilt-trip her in to helping or anything. Honestly, it just wasn't a familiar concept to MacCready - people helping each other, for anything less than a solid exchange of caps, goods, or favors. Not until she came along, at least. Maybe that's why he told her about Duncan - she'd already helped him with the Gunners, of her own volition, and no matter what she said about it just being pragmatic to try and keep him at arm's length… she did it because she cared. He knew. Maybe he was just deluding himself, but… he _felt_ like he knew.

"Yeah," he answered with a weary smile. "Yeah, you can help."

 

* * *

 

  
Glory had her minigun out and disassembled on a table in HQ. She had a grease-stained rag in her hand and was methodically wiping down each individual piece of the weapon. There were very few material items that she treasured, and her gun was one of them. The cleaning and maintenance of it was a bi-weekly ritual that she kept strictly.

Deacon was nearby, getting patched up by Carrington. He sat in a rickety wooden chair as the doctor stitched up a wicked mongrel bite on his left forearm. They had numbing cream in their medical supplies, but it was likely expired and didn't do much. He winced as he watched needle and thread pierce his flesh, over and over again. In the pain, he found his eyes drifting to the chalkboard. Whisper's name was scrawled, in Desdemona's handwriting, just beneath his. He latched on to the word, followed the curve of each letter, and _other_ curves were called to mind. That night in Goodneighbor. A hard lump rose in his throat every time he thought about it, and he seemed to be thinking about it constantly. Hell, he would never forget it. The moment he'd met her, his world had been thrown into turmoil, and it seemed that the harder he tried to regain his footing, the deeper he sank. It was unusual for him - if there was one thing that was important to Deacon, it was always maintaining control over his life and the situations he found himself in. As much as he could, even if it was just by expecting the worst and remaining detached. Somehow, despite his best efforts, he was beginning to both hope for the best, and become undeniably attached. His aim had only ever been to keep things simple, easy… but turning her down had somehow made things infinitely more complicated. He felt lost, in the sweetest way. He couldn’t even be all the way mad about it, cause just breathing the same air as her made him feel so damn good. Carrington tied off his thread, and the snip of the scissors brought Deacon back to the present. The wound was stitched and treated. It didn't look good, or feel good, but in time it would heal. As he looked up, he realized that Glory was staring at him with eyes that bored hotter and meaner than a laser turret as she cleaned her gun. She was in a mood about something - he was surely about to find out what precisely she was in a mood about.

"Hey Doc, Dez needs you. Over there, in the other room. It's an emergency." She didn't even look at Carrington when she spoke to him, just kept staring Deacon down. She was lying, of course - Dez didn't need the Doctor. But the Doctor would find out that Glory lied, deduce that she wanted him gone, and stay away. She stood and watched Carrington, hands on her hips, as he sanitized his instruments and cleaned his station. Deacon opened and closed his hand, flexed his forearm, felt the tender skin around the wound shift. When the Doctor had left, Glory left her gun disassembled and advanced on Deacon.

"You think I didn't see what you were staring at?"

Deacon reached for his flask - whiskey would numb the pain in his arm.

"I wasn't staring at anything, Glory. I was getting stitches, I was spaced out."

She stalked over to the chalkboard and rapped her finger where Whisper's name was written. Deacon sighed.

"You're not a fucking eagle, Glory. Don't tell me you could tell I was looking at _her name exactly_."

She glared. Glory was intimidating to most folks - Deacon had known her too long to be scared of her, but that deficit was made up in respect. What she couldn't coerce him in to doing, he would do anyway because she was his friend and he cared about her. He groaned inwardly - he didn't want to talk about this, he _really_ didn't, but she was gonna make him.

"I don't need to see, Deacon, I _know_! I know more than you think, too. Come on, you two are my best friends. You think I wouldn't pick up on what's going on? You think I'm stupid?"

Her voice cracked in a way that belied the emotional truth behind her words. She worried about things like that, he knew. About not being taken seriously, about people assuming she couldn't pick up on the subtleties of social interactions because she was a synth. She really did think he thought she was stupid, and with good reason - he'd been acting like he thought she was stupid. Suddenly, he felt very bad.

"No, _no_ , Glory, I don't think you're stupid. That's not it, not at all. It's just…" He made a motion to reach for her hand, but stopped himself. She didn't look like she wanted to be touched. He clenched his jaw, fighting down the truth.

"Fuck, Glory," he spoke softly. "How can I tell you what's going on when I don't even know, myself? _Yes_ , okay, I _care about_ Whisper. More than I should, maybe. In that, uh, special sort of way. But you know me - I'm a piece of shit. I don't deserve her. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing, telling her no. I tried to get her to stay away, but now I'm the one who's carrying a torch."

There was an advantage to being a known liar - when you did tell the truth, people softened on you. They felt special. He should've known better than to expect that from Glory - she didn't go soft for anyone, and she was too wise to his ways. Her anger only grew.

"You are _so far_ up your own ass, you know that? The only reason why you don't deserve her is because of the shit you're pulling now.You _aren't_ a bad guy, and you _do_ deserve love, but you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself and _stop_ pulling Whisper around like this. I told you not to hurt her, and that's exactly what you're-"

"Glory, you have no idea what you're talking about." Deacon wasn't quick to anger, like, ever, but he felt backed into a corner. "You don't know my past, you don't know what I've _done_. I'm doing her a favor, _trust me._ "

"I may not know what you've done in the past, but I know what you're doing _now._ You're being selfish, and a coward, and hurting her and yourself. If you really think she's better off without you, _fine_. Leave her alone, for real. Stop pining over her, stop flirting with her, stop _following her_." Glory's eyes narrowed. "And if you can't do that, tell her how you feel. Be with her for real. You two make each other happy, or at least you did, before you made it all fucking weird and complicated. You would do each other good. Even I can see that."

He opened his mouth to respond, to make more excuses (even he knew that they were excuses,) but Glory turned on her heel and stalked off. She'd said what she wanted, and knew she would get no further with him now. Deacon wasn't exactly too stubborn to admit he was wrong, but with something this deeply ingrained… he just needed time. She left him sitting alone in HQ with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his fists clenched. It was the tipping point he'd been trying so desperately to avoid. He knew Glory was right. He couldn't keep doing this, he had to make a decision - a decision between risking everything and plunging headfirst into the depth of all his fears, or cutting himself off from the first person to make him feel _anything_ in years. He closed his eyes and weighed his options. The taste of her lips, the smell of her skin, her unfathomable strength and fortitude, the way his stomach did roller coaster flip-flops when he thought about her or saw her or spoke to her or _kissed her_ were held up against too much innocent blood spilled, screams and gunshots, that horrific dark sinking feeling, dread and panic and sickness and disbelief, when he realized that his Barbara was dead, gone, and it was _his fault_. Since then… he just didn't consider himself suited for love, for a thousand different reasons. The wound was still too raw, still festering, and while welcoming a new love - _this_ new love - might speed up the healing, it also might rip it open all over again. Even as he relived the worst of his past, the exact thing he was afraid of, he knew it really wasn't even a choice to be made. Some things, once set in motion, were far too powerful to be stopped.  
  


* * *

 

  
Med-Tek was full of ferals, of course. There was something about medical facilities and ferals…. as Whisper popped in a fresh plasma cartridge, she realized with a jolt that it was likely that all the ferals were patients when or shortly after the bombs fell. Not that Med-Tek was a place you particularly wanted to be a 'patient' at, judging by the cell blocks and handcuffs and scary-looking medical equipment. She remembered all the time spent in hospitals with her father, when he was sick, and for a strange moment she was glad he died when he did and didn't live to see what the world became.

She didn't particularly like killing ferals, either, like she did mutants or raiders. It was challenging, but not fun - a single feral was laughably easy to take out, but there never was just one. They didn't strategize, they didn't think. They just stumbled en masse, arms outstretched, mindlessly lumbering towards the closest living thing with only the most primal urges - _bite, rip, tear, kill._ It was all too easy to become overwhelmed, outnumbered, swallowed up by an undulating mass of radiation-rotted flesh. This was the real danger of ferals - numbers.

However, she and MacCready worked well as a team, even in such close quarters which were exactly the opposite of ideal for dealing with ferals. She kept her flashlight and radio off, and they moved quietly through the facility. You needed to spot the ferals before they spotted you - if you could take out all or a few before they started swarming, it made things a _lot_ easier. Whisper would signal MacCready when she spotted a group, lob a Molotov which would take a few out and set the rest ablaze, and MacCready would snipe them from a distance while Whisper ran in to engage the stragglers in closer quarters. It seemed she had a type - men who kept their distance, with sniper rifles and keen eyes.

A red auto-injector with the words 'Med-Tek Prevent' stamped on it's side in white - that's what they were looking for, according to MacCready's contacts. They scoured every square inch of the upper levels and found nothing, and so they proceeded to the sub-levels which were even more infested with ferals. MacCready kept a close eye on Whisper - always ready with a Stimpak or RadAway when the rads from the ferals rubbed off on her too much. She could tell the longer they spent there, fighting, searching, the worse he felt. MacCready wasn't a man accustomed to asking for, or accepting, help. He wore guilt plainly on his face as he searched for a vein in her arm to inject the RadAway. The medicine burned as it snaked through her blood, it always did. They were both splattered with gore, and for a moment they locked eyes. Against her better judgement, she reached out and placed a hand gently on his cheek, feeling the stubble and pockmarks beneath.

"Hey," she whispered. "We're gonna find it. We're gonna help Duncan. He's gonna be okay." Her voice carried a tenderness, a desperation, a fierce determination that _we will save your son, because I couldn't save mine._ MacCready's eyes were shadowed under the brim of his hat as he busied himself with the first aid task in front of him, and when his eyes rose to meet her again she could tell that he was trying very hard to look reassured for her sake. MacCready had to see something before he could believe it, but the conviction in her voice did at least reassure him that she genuinely wanted to be here, helping him. The bag of RadAway was drained, and he removed the IV without speaking. Whisper shook her hand, the tips of her fingers tingling from the medicine, reached for her rifle, and they were off again once more.

They found the cure in a dirty laboratory in the basement. A broken tube light was hanging from the ceiling, sparking and sputtering, and there were broken microscopes and beakers littering every surface. Whisper spotted the red auto-injector through the darkness, and nudged MacCready with her elbow.

"Hey," she spoke quietly. "There it is. You wanna do the honors?"

He looked like he almost didn't believe it. His eyes darted back and forth between the cure and Whisper, and she grinned. Tentatively, he stepped forward, and Whisper began scanning the perimeter of the room for any other valuable salvage. Glass crunched under her boots and she recovered a measure of copper wire and a few syringes of Med-X to take back to the Railroad's infirmary.

"Holy sh-I mean, uh, wow." MacCready muttered. "It's actually here. I kinda didn't expect it, to be honest." He picked up the auto-injector, turned it over in his hands a few times, and placed it gingerly in his pack. Whisper chucked quietly as she absentmindedly pocketed a few blood packs and ripped some circuit boards from the dead monitors on one wall - Tinker Tom could use those. Gathering salvage was second nature now, even when it wasn't something she personally could use - resources were scarcer than perhaps anything else in the Commonwealth, and she had a vested interest now in an organization that required resources to survive. As she scrounged, she watched MacCready. He was such a hardass, it was nice to see him happy (nicer than she'd admit.) And she did feel some personal satisfaction - it was small and insignificant, but it was a promise kept, and his son would be safe. She was so lost in thought and the work of her hands, she didn't watch where her feet were going, and the toe of her boot bumped in to something solid yet squishy. The sound of shifting flesh and quiet groans filled the air - wrapped around the other side of the laboratory, huddled on the floor as they so often are, a pack of ferals - more than a half-dozen. And she had quite literally walked right in to them.

_"Shit,"_ she barely had time to mutter before the ferals began to stumble to their feet. The ones closest to her feet grabbed at her ankles - she was always surprised how _strong_ they were, even with brittle bones and rotten flesh. They clawed up her legs, pulling her down, and she fought to keep her footing as she frantically reached for the trigger of her rifle. MacCready turned his head, and it wasn't until she saw the panic in _his_ eyes that she began to truly feel it herself. None of the ferals had spotted MacCready yet - they were all standing and turning towards her. She kicked, and brought her foot down hard on the exposed skull of one of the ghouls that was grasping at her ankles. Blood splattered out in an arc, and the ghoul loosed it's fingers as it fell to the ground, dead. But that was only one of them, and scores more were rising to their feet and advancing on her. She held her plasma rifle close to her body and said an inward prayer as she began to hit the trigger repeatedly, aiming at nothing in particular but knowing she was sure to hit something. _Lady Reaper, don't fail me now._

It was an eternity, and an instant. The air was filled with the hollow-sounding zips of plasma being fired, the wet squelch of her shots connecting with flesh, and the collective low, mindless groans that always accompanied a swarm of ferals. One of them bit down on her bicep - she cringed as it's teeth pierced her skin, and brought the butt of her rifle through it's deformed face with a sick crunch. Her arm throbbed - it would get infected without immediate medical attention, _if_ she survived this, which was her most immediate concern. She felt hands reaching, grasping, ceaseless, endless. It was like a strong current, rushing up around her shoulders and pulling her down, pulling her _under_. Every muscle in her body strained fighting against the pull, but it wasn't enough, she couldn't fight it. She felt her knees buckle and her feet slip, and she began firing more rapidly. They were beginning to close in on her, drown the light out, when suddenly something cut through. A low growl, a spray of blood, and the crack of bones. One of them, on the outskirt of the pack, fell to the ground - it's throat had been slit. Then, another fell, a smoking hole blown through it's forehead. She saw MacCready there, in a way she'd never seen him before. Hell, the man was a mercenary, violence was a part of who he was. But she'd never seen his eyes so full of genuine bloodlust. His mouth was twisted into a snarl, his eyes narrow and furious. Time seemed to slow down as she watched him snap the neck of another feral with his bare hands. If he wasn't fighting _with_ her, she would have been scared. She was still a little scared, anyway, but he gave her the advantage she so desperately needed. She took a few steps back, to distance herself from the ghouls, and quickly dispatched the few MacCready hadn't gotten to yet.

As soon as the last ghoul hit the ground, MacCready rushed to her side. His hands shook as he examined her injuries. The bite on her arm, scratches all over - from her ankles to her thighs to her neck and face. She was covered in her own blood. Everything hurt - but by now, she was used to pushing away physical pain. Honestly, the look on MacCready's face was making her feel worse than any of her injuries. She'd never seen him like this, never even entertained the possibility of seeing him like this. His eyes were wide and full of terror, his fingers skimmed across her skin and shook like dry leaves in a radiation storm - so different from the firm, assertive grip she was used to. He was muttering under his breath, a nonstop stream of curse words - seriously out of character for him - and all of a sudden he seemed to have become very, _very_ small. It was unsettling, and made Whisper feel distinctly compelled to comfort him. He held her face in his hands, checking for any further injuries, brushing his thumb across the plane of her cheekbone, drinking her in as though he were afraid she would disappear in a flash at any moment. Then he did the strangest thing of all - he pulled her in close, so close, and enveloped her in the tightest embrace. His head lulled down to her shoulder, and she breathed in gunpowder and cigarette smoke. The pressure on her arms and chest hurt, but she grit her teeth and endured it silently, frozen in place. She'd nearly died in his company many times before - brushes with death were a frequent occurrence in the Commonwealth, and they'd never bothered him like he was bothered now. He knew she was more than capable of holding her own - she was a ferocious combatant, and never in any real danger, whether she was with him or not. He knew that, but now… now he appeared shaken, deeply. Something strange was going on. Something _more_.

"Are you okay?" He whispered as he pulled away. He looked sick. She felt sick.

"I'm fine, RJ - but are _you_? What's going on? You just freaked out." She stepped back and pulled her pack off her back, digging around for a Stimpak as she raised a concerned eyebrow at MacCready, trying very hard to strike a balance between _I'm genuinely worried about you_ and _You crossed a line there._ With a hiss, she injected the Stimpak near the bite on her arm. "You know I can handle myself… it was just some ferals, nothing I haven't survived before."

MacCready flung ghoul blood off his switchblade, and holstered his pistol. He avoided her gaze.

"Look, let's just get out of here. I'll breathe a lot easier once we're out in the open."

She didn't need to be told twice. Though she was trying to downplay it for MacCready's sake, the swarm of ferals had left her hurt and shaken. The dark and dank of the medical research facility basement was starting to press on her, so much so that her lungs longed for even the irradiated air topside. They left in silence - Whisper walked behind MacCready and she could see his shoulders tight and tense.

Under the starlight they travelled back to Goodneighbor, and after about an hour of silence MacCready offered an explanation, unprompted. Earlier at Mass Pike he'd told her that his wife had died, but not how. They'd been traveling with their son to a new settlement, with jobs lined up for both of them. Hope for a new life - safety, prosperity, growth. One night, they camped underground in an old subway station. He set up traps, and kept watch, but there was nothing he could do. Lucy was killed by feral ghouls, and with her dying breath she bade MacCready run to safety with their son. He knew she was right - at a certain point, there was no point in fighting, and running away was the only way to survive. She _wanted_ them to survive. She knew she would live on through her son. It didn't make MacCready feel any better about leaving, and it didn't make the loss any easier for him and Duncan. MacCready freaked out when Whisper got attacked by ferals because he felt like he was reliving the loss of his wife - and he apologized for that. His personal baggage had no place in his work with Whisper. She couldn’t be angry with him, or even object - she felt even sicker than before, her stomach sinking like it was filled with lead. There really was nobody in the Wasteland without a dead loved one behind them, and she knew what it felt like to lose a spouse. In the same instant that she felt overwhelming sympathy for what he’d endured, she knew their time together had to come to an end. There was a string around her heart, knotted tight and anchored back at Railroad HQ, wrapped around the finger of a man who hid behind sunglasses. She thought maybe if she made herself scarce, if she spent more time away, she could sever the ties… but the further away she traveled, the tighter the knot. It hurt her, and she realized now that it was only a matter of time before it hurt MacCready, too. She was being unfair to him, and it would bring her no peace to cause him any more pain.

They arrived in Goodneighbor a few hours before daybreak, and got a room at the Rexford to catch what sleep they could. MacCready’s eyes were bloodshot, and he blinked away exhaustion - mentally Whisper was still buzzing, but her limbs were heavy with pure physical fatigue. She slept in the bed, and he slept on the couch - they might have fucked, multiple times, but they sure as hell weren’t sleeping in the same bed together. It was tempting for her to just slip out in the night, never say goodbye and never tell him that he had way too much to offer to waste it on someone like herself, never look in his eyes and tell him that he was a good man and a great father but she would never give him what he needed. It would be easier to not have to confront the fact that she only ever walked into the Third Rail and tossed that pouch of caps at him because she needed someone to use. It had started out like that, at least, but she saw him now - she _really_ saw him - and she wouldn’t end it like a coward. So she stayed, and her body drifted off to sleep far before her mind was ready.

In the morning, they packed up and left. It was cold just on the edge of being bitter - perfect weather for airing out hard truths. She followed MacCready to the entrance of Goodneighbor, and he stopped in front of Daisy’s store.

“I’ll give the cure to Daisy. She can get it on the next caravan out of the Commonwealth.”

Whisper’s boots ground into the gravel as she stopped abruptly.

“Wait, you’re not taking it back to Duncan yourself?”

“No, I can’t go back to the Capitol now. I don’t have enough caps saved up, I have to do more work here. Daisy will get it there safely.”

Whisper bristled. She didn’t like this answer.

“You have more work to do _here_? What, there isn’t work for a mercenary in the Captiol? RJ, your son _needs_ you. You’ve got the medicine. Now bring it back to him.”

The silence was thick, and she watched MacCready tense up. When his eyes rose from the brim of his hat, they told her all she needed to know. She saw fear, gripping his lungs, and shame smothering, choking. He felt guilty for leaving his son, but more frightened of what he would find when he went back. Was Duncan angry? Was he resentful? Did he blame his father for his mother’s death? Did he understand that his father didn’t want to leave his sick son, but felt that he had to in order to care and provide? When he returned, would he be a good father? Could they move on, heal, grow? He wanted to be with his son again, _of course_. But sometimes the unknown was crippling.

“ _Oh_.” She whispered. Her stomach dropped, and she reached out to grab his hand. “Oh, RJ. I’m sorry, I didn’t know… listen… I know how you feel. _God_ , you don’t think I feel like I failed my son?” Her voice cracked, and MacCready was struck. She kept him in the dark, intentionally, about her background and much of her work with the Railroad, but he knew the basics. “Time and time again I couldn’t protect him. I went through hell to try and find him, and when I did I was too late. Don’t you think I felt useless? Like a fool, frozen in a Vault for _sixty years_ while he lived his whole life without me? So many times along the way I lost faith, but I fought through it, and all for nothing. If I could go back, if I could just know my son… RJ, _you still have time._ ”

He looked up at her, his eyebrows screwed together apprehensively as he drank in her words. It was strange, for him. He never talked about his feelings, or his fears, or the dusty things that lingered in the darkest corners of his soul. But he didn’t even have to _speak_ for her to hear those things, and respond with empathy and warmth and some damn good points. He thought about it all the time - he should be back with his son, of course, he knew it. The only thing keeping him in the Commonwealth - now that he had the cure for Duncan - was his own fear. It was only now, for the first time, listening to her, that he felt some of that fear melting away. She held his hand, and kept speaking.

“I know you’re scared, RJ, I understand. But he’s your son, and you two are all each other has left in this world. He _loves_ you, I know it, and you are a _damn_ good father to him. You’ve worked so hard to help him, and provide for him, and you’ve done it. Now what he needs is you. There. With him.”

He laughed nervously. “You know, I think you might just be right.”

Whisper smiled up at him, genuine and warm. He didn’t know it, but she hadn’t smiled at _anyone_ like that since she’d gone to the Institute. It was strange, but maybe he’d helped her regain a little bit of her humanity, and the best way she could repay him was by leaving now.

“Here,” she mumbled while digging in her pack. Another purse of caps shoved in to his hands, so much like the first time they’d met. It was all the caps she had on her, a little over a grand. She had five times as much in a safe in her new home in Diamond City. He felt the weight of it, and looked at her, surprised. “A parting gift, for you to do with what you will. Send it back to Duncan, or take it to him yourself. It’s not my place to tell you how to be a father to your son, and no matter what you do… you’re trying, and that’s what matters. Just know that I think you _can_ go back to him, and he will be _so_ happy to see you, and the two of you will thrive together.” She took a deep breath. “Either way… this is where I leave you. I’ve got to focus on my work with the Railroad, and… you are an amazing man. You’ll make a lucky someone very happy. I wish it could be me, but… it’s not. It can’t.”

“Deacon.” He nodded grimly as he pocketed the caps. Truthfully, he’d known, he always had. He never knew Deacon well - he had no reason to - and only ever saw him when he was in Goodneighbor with Whisper. It was enough - the way they moved around each other, the fact that Deacon always seemed to have his eyes on her (as much as anyone could tell with those damn sunglasses,) the way her shoulders stiffened a little bit anytime Deacon’s name came up. It was enough for MacCready to tell, and he enjoyed Whisper too much to ever question her motives with him. “He takes you for granted, girl. I hope for your sake he wakes up and realizes what’s right in front of him.”

“Me too,” Whisper smiled sadly as she straightened the lapel of MacCready’s khaki jacket and ran her palm down his chest affectionately. “Thank you, MacCready, for everything. And… good luck.”

In the middle of the Goodneighbor streets, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. It was the first truly intimate physical touch they’d ever shared, and felt more tender than anything he could have imagined. It was over too soon, and she left him with the sweet scent of her hair and red lipstick smudged on his cheek. He watched her walk away and out of the gates of Goodneighbor, tried to burn her hips and her eyes and her deadliness and her magnetism and her bravery into his memory for years to come. The crowds parted for her - heavily armed and armored, beautiful in all black, she looked important and more than a little intimidating. They would never know how important she really was. She turned to look back at him once, with a warm smile, before she pushed open the gates and stepped out of his life. He didn’t move until a ghoul just off a Jet bender stumbled into him and forced him to - he shook his head, and turned his back on Daisy’s shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join me on [ tumblr ](forevermarked.tumblr.com)


	11. Wider than Victoria Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Battle of Bunker Hill, Whisper has an emotional confrontation with Father, and Deacon finds the courage to step up to the plate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiii! I know I said I wouldn't be away for a long time again but I had lots of real life stuff like moving to do. Boo real life stuff! Fanfic is better than real life! Anyway, super sorry, and for real that should be the last time! I have started another work, if any of you are also fans of Deus Ex I've begun work on a Adam Jensen/female OC project. Now that my real life is more stable I hope to divide my time equally between the two projects, alternating updates and updating both much more regularly. Thank you again SO SO much to everyone who continues to read and comment, I can't tell you how much it means to me! Did everyone play Far Harbor? I'm still wrapping up some of the side quests, I loved the whole thing. I'll most likely be including it in some of the later chapters! And I can't wait for Nuka World to come out! I love this game! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter, it's really sweet and was quite nice to write, and look forward to more frequent updates in the future I pinky promise!

 

Whisper had everything laid out on a table, and she went through a mental checklist as she loaded her pack. Railroad HQ was quiet, and dark. Those who weren’t asleep were busied with their own tasks, and she worked by lamplight.

_Rad-X._ Two jars, banded together so they didn’t slide and crack.

_Rad-Away._ Four packs, pressed flat, IV cords wrapped around to secure them.

_Water._ Purified, filtered. Three cans. She brushed the dirt off one of them. As long as what’s inside was clean…

_Provisions._ Brahmin jerky, dried mutfruit, gumdrops and Fancy Lads. Not for her - this would be a short mission. For the synths. They would likely be hungry, and offering food was a surefire way to gain their trust if they were wary.

_Stimpaks._ As many as she could carry. If she didn’t need them during this battle, someone else would. She counted twelve before she rolled them together and tied the bundle with twine.

_Explosives._ God, she hoped she didn’t need them, but she packed three frag grenades just in case.

_Ammunition._ Plasma cartridges, shotgun shells, and 10mm bullets. The plasma cartridges she loaded onto a bandolier for easy access - the other two types went into her pack. They were backup.

_Weapons._ A small 10mm auto pistol, which she holstered on her hip. The combat shotgun she’d found at Libertalia, slung across her back. And Lady Reaper, which she would carry. For a moment her fingers brushed against the enamel engraving, and she smiled in spite of herself.

As if summoned by her thoughts, she heard footsteps behind her. It was amazing how you grew to know someone just by the sound of their footsteps - the cadence, the weight, the speed. He was light on his feet, always had been. She felt her shoulders stiffen involuntarily.

“Are you ready?” She asked, without turning around. It came out colder than she wanted.

The footsteps approached at her side.

“Yeah, I’m ready. You?”

Deacon sounded softer, more serious than usual. She expected a joke, some witty quip to defuse the tension. Lady Reaper cradled in the crook of her elbow, she turned to look at him.

“A little nervous.” She smiled weakly, and Deacon felt his insides melt. He squashed the urge to reach out and hold her, but nudged her gently with his elbow.

“Come on, girl. We got this.”

She inhaled deeply, and nodded as though she were trying to convince herself he was right.

“We got this. _We got this_.”

Whisper turned to Desdemona, who was hunched over the war table going over mission specs.

“Desdemona, are our runners ready?”

“Four of them, already in place at Bunker Hill.”

Whisper nodded. This was the first mission where she would have to play both sides actively. She and Deacon would meet up with a Courser outside of the settlement, under the direction of Father, with the objective of sending four escaped synths back to the Institute. Once inside Bunker Hill, they would take out the Courser and escort the synths back to safety. A runner would take each synth to a different safehouse, where they would begin being processed for facial reconstruction and memory wipes. Then she would return to Father, and tell him that the synths escaped because they were ambushed by the Railroad. She was looking forward to lying to his face. She relished any opportunity to screw the man over.

“If we’re not back by afternoon, my cover’s been compromised. Get everyone out of here. Head to the Castle, just across the bay. Preston Garvey will help relocate you - he’s got a foot in every habitable area in the ‘Wealth. I’ve spoken with him already, he knows you might be coming. Just… pray it doesn’t come to that.”

In the dim light, Whisper looked more weary than ever. She’d been away for a long time, and Deacon hadn’t had a moment alone with her since she came back from her latest (and last) outing with MacCready. What happened in Goodneighbor still remained unaddressed with words - only loaded glances and awkward shuffling. After his conversation with Glory, he felt an ever more pressing need to tell Whisper… _something_. He wasn’t sure exactly what - he expected the words would just come when he needed them, but that was dangerously optimistic of him to think. He wanted to tell her the _truth_ \- that there wasn’t a single thing about her that he didn’t love, that he needed her, that he felt _empty_ when she was gone and the thought of losing her forever made his lungs close up so he couldn’t breathe. It never seemed to be the right time - and the truth never came easy out of his mouth, even with the best of intentions. The most he could realistically hope for was some mangled, clumsy mumbling of generalized affection. _She deserves better._

Quietly and with little fanfare, the two left Railroad HQ and slipped into the cover of night. They’d made the trip to Bunker Hill and back many times before, for both business and pleasure. Tonight, Whisper was walking unusually fast, like she was being chased by something scary but she didn’t want to show her fear by running. Her boots hardly touched the ground, and her mouth was set in a hard line, pulled taut with anxiety. She didn’t say exactly why she was nervous, but he knew. Honestly, he was nervous too. They’d never done anything like this - sneaking multiple synths right out from under the Institute’s nose. On paper the mission was simple, but there were so many things that could go wrong. Whisper’s cover was at stake, and the way she talked about Father and the Institute… Deacon couldn’t see the discovery of her involvement in the Railroad being met with anything less than violent and sadistic interrogation. It said a lot that he was more worried about Whisper being captured and tortured than the Railroad’s entire existence being threatened.

They moved in silence, and soon approached the alleyway just outside of Bunker Hill where they were to meet the Courser. As the great white obelisk rose above them, the ominous roar of Vertibirds could be heard.

“Shit,” Deacon muttered. “Looks like the Brotherhood is already here.”

Despite her extreme hatred towards the Brotherhood of Steel, Whisper realized that their presence here would be a tactical advantage.

“Good. Brotherhood and Institute can keep each other occupied while we run the synths out. It’ll make our job easier.”

The Courser awaited them in the alleyway. Deacon had only ever seen one other, and only for a moment before they killed him and Whisper dug the relay chip out of his skull. He certainly didn’t expect to like Coursers, but neither did he expect them to make his blood run ice cold. At least the Gen 3s they smuggled out had emotions, free will, _personalities_. Whether Coursers were specifically engineered without such things, or SRB beat and trained it out of them, Coursers existed with one singular purpose - seek and recover, destroy if needed. He wouldn’t think of them as machines, he _couldn’t_ , but… they weren’t like the other Gen 3s, either. That grey area, and the fact that he even struggled with it, made him _deeply_ uncomfortable.

This one was ginger, with a small, mean face. Like every other Courser, he wore black leather and carried a standard issue Institute laser rifle. He regarded Whisper and her companion with a detached sense of general distaste, and Whisper gave it right back. She was only as civil with SRB as she needed to be. After exchanging thinly-veiled hostility, they decided that due to the unexpected presence of the Brotherhood, it would be best to split up for the approach and meet inside. Whisper glared at the Courser as they parted, silently hoping he would be killed in the crossfire before he could reach the synths. He wouldn’t - Coursers were too good for that.

Bunker Hill was alight with gunfire of every type - .55 caliber bullets clattered to the concrete floors, and laser beams zipped and hissed over each other. It was chaos - a respectable number of Railroad heavies, a handful of Institute goons in the form of tattered Gen 1s, and a squad of Brotherhood soldiers both in and out of power armor dropping down from the Vertibird. It was a small space, and made the firefight seem much bigger than it actually was. The front gate was locked, and so they advanced on the side gate for entry. Deacon followed her around the perimeter of the settlement, cobbled-together wooden walls punctuated here and there with sheets of serrated metal, a patchwork of colors and textures - purely utilitarian, accidentally beautiful. His eyes darted around, narrow and shrewd. He was a sniper - not much use in close quarters like this, but if anyone tried to take Whisper out from a distance, he could get them first. It wasn’t the first time he styled himself her protector, and it wouldn’t be the last - in fact, it seemed to be emerging as his primary role when he traveled with her. Not like she _needed_ protecting, but… he couldn’t _not_ look out for her, even if he tried. Cause that’s what you did when you loved someone. _Jesus. I really do love her._

After entering through the side gate, they cut their way through the outer ring - past the inn, and the doctor, and the caravan trader’s stalls. Gen 1s lie broken on the floor, pieces of their white polymer shells scattered about and riddled with bullet holes. Whisper stepped over the crumpled body of a young Brotherhood Initiate, a laser hole burnt clear through her forehead. Glory could be heard laughing wickedly in the distance as her minigun tore through Brotherhood power armor. Whisper smiled, and was heartened. They moved through the main square of Bunker Hill - at the moment it was a bloody battlefield, but both Deacon and Whisper remembered the night people had danced on the floor that was now littered with corpses, the night that music and laughter rang out instead of gunshots, the night they kissed under the stars just nearby where they’d met the Courser. The Commonwealth was a land of such stark, staggering extremes, capricious and ever-changing - it would be more unusual if a neighborhood square _didn’t_ host both lively parties and deadly firefights than if it did.

A trap door behind the obelisk led them to the Railroad’s underground synth processing complex. It would be both Whisper and Deacon’s first time in the facility - the Railroad, like most clandestine organizations, was compartmentalized like that. Deacon and Whisper were involved strictly in the first stage of synth liberation - wresting them from the claws of the Institute. Anything beyond that was multiple levels of different departments filled with different agents, working together separately towards one common goal.

Shadowed underground tunnels led them to the heart of the facility, where the fighting had already spread. The chambers echoed with shouts and gunfire, and Deacon and Whisper locked eyes. If they didn’t get to the synths before the Courser…. they would be lost, relayed back to captivity. A critical mission failure. They communicated wordlessly and both increased their pace, ducking through the fighting, slipping unnoticed past otherwise occupied enemies. It was hard not to stop and help when their people fell - but if they failed to save these synths, every death would be in vain. They pushed on.

Four synths huddled together in a room deep in the basement. One woman and three men, dressed in tattered denim and cotton, dirty and disheveled and exhausted and plainly terrified. They cowered in fear as Deacon and Whisper entered - they had no way of knowing who was friend or foe.

“P-please! Don’t hurt us!” one of the men stammered as the entire group backed into a corner and raised their hands above their heads in deference.

Whisper was a mother again - gentle, reassuring, emanating kindness and care. Even covered in blood and viscera.

“It’s okay. We want to help you. We won’t hurt you - see?”

She knelt down and set her plasma rifle on the ground, sending it skidding gently into the open space between them, disarming herself. The female synth looked up at Whisper - the fear was fading, tentatively, and a spark of precarious hope took it’s place.

“Deacon, watch the door,” she spoke low over her shoulder. “For the Courser.”

He nodded and took up post. Whisper had such a way with the synths, she always had. From the first time he saw her with H2, he _knew_. Her ability to emphasize, connect, and comfort was unparalleled. He could crack a joke to break the tension, make them laugh, but… he couldn’t make them feel _safe_ like she could.

“We’re with the Railroad, and we’re going to help you get to safety, okay?”

Whisper waited for the synths to nod their understanding before she pulled her pack off her back and dug through it.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty? I have food and water, and medical supplies if anyone needs treatment.”

Gen 1s and 2s like Nick didn’t have bodily functions, but Gen 3s were biologically as close to humans as possible, and still needed to eat, drink, and sleep. It was likely these synths had done none of those things in a very long time. They made short work of Whisper’s supplies, and all seemed calmer and more stable. They gathered around her while she spoke to the group in hushed tones.

“A Courser is going to be here soon. He thinks we’re working with him, to bring you back. When he gets here, my friend and I are going to kill him. Then we’ll wait for some of our associates to come and pick you up. They’ll take you to safe houses, and you’ll begin being processed for facial reconstruction and memory wipes so that the Institute has no way of finding you and taking you captive _ever_ again. Do you all understand?”

They nodded, with understandably wide eyes. Even if it meant freedom, memory wipes and facial reconstruction… becoming an entirely new person… it was _a lot_ to deal with. The Institute didn’t give them names, but it gave them free will and the ability to form personalities. These synths were sentient and self-actualized individuals, and they had to essentially kill themselves to become free of the Institute’s tyranny. Whisper understood what it felt like for one’s old self to burn so a new self could rise from the ashes, to stand on the precipice and make the decision to jump - even when jumping was for the best, it was hard, and more frightening than anything else.

As if on cue, heavy footsteps approached the door. Deacon raised his rifle, and Whisper pulled her shotgun off her back. This wasn’t artful killing - this was dismembering a man as quickly and efficiently as possible. If the Courser had time to relay back to the Institute in the space between realizing Whisper was trying to kill him and her successfully killing him, her cover was lost - and possibly the entirety of the Railroad, as well. After only a moment’s hesitation to ensure that the figure at the door was indeed the Courser and not an ally, Whisper grit her teeth, dug her boots in to the ground, and unloaded several shotgun shells into the Courser’s chest. Behind her, the group of synths cowered, covering their heads in an instinctive fear reaction - there were gunshots and a great deal of blood, and that was frightening even when it was salvation. The Courser didn’t even have time to realize he was dying before he was gone.

Whisper recovered her plasma rifle and tried to clean the blood off her skin while they waited for the runners to clear a safe path through the fighting and come retrieve the synths. She played Diamond City radio through her Pip Boy to fill the silence - both synths and Railroad agents were explicitly discouraged from making extraneous conversation during the extraction process. She was getting antsy, Deacon could tell - surely because of her impending meeting with Father. Was she nervous, worried about being able to pull off this lie successfully? _Don’t be. You learned from the best._

In short order, the runners came and took the synths out of the facility. As they left the room, the synths stared at Whisper with wide eyes halfway between fear and awe. Were it not for the memory wipes, they all would have remembered her until their last days. She didn’t feel their eyes, and was happy to be forgotten. She and Deacon waited a few moments more, for the synths and their runners to clear the basement, and then they left the facility.

It was a short walk to the ruins of C.I.T, where she had planned to meet Father. The sun was just beginning to rise as they cut through the rotunda and climbed a stairwell to the roof. In the distance, beyond air vents and fans and long-defunct heating systems, a man in a lab coat stood looking across the horizon. She pulled Deacon to the side and spoke low.

“Stay here. Hide. You’ll be safer if he never sees you. Just… keep an eye on me through your scope, okay? Just in case?”

He could see it all, then, in her eyes - bloodshot, skittish, fundamentally exhausted in a way that went so far beyond simply not sleeping enough. He remembered the funeral, the symbolic killing and mourning of Shaun. He knew she tried her hardest to detach the man that was Father from the son that she’d lost for 60 years - and usually, she succeeded. Right now, she was struggling with it. She was afraid of Father, under his thumb like this - and it made it so much harder for her to not anguish over the _incredibly_ fucked-up fact that technically she’d _given birth_ to this horrible man. He knew the questions she’d asked herself a hundred thousand times - _is this my fault? Could I have done more? Did I fail as a mother?_ In this moment, she wore them all so plainly on her face, and he _felt_ her pain like it was his own. He reached out, slid his hand under her curtain of dark hair to cup her cheek. He ran the pad of his thumb across the deep scar that bisected her cheekbone as she sighed and closed her eyes. Another time, perhaps, an affectionate touch from him would have made her angry - a brazen taste of what he knew she wanted but actively withheld, a painful reminder of how she’d laid herself open for him and watched him walk away. Now she was glad for it, no matter the circumstances, no matter the baggage. He was there, _with her_ , and that alone meant a great deal. It was bittersweet, and there was sadness when she looked up at him, but it wasn’t anger. Somehow, it made him feel even worse.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be watching like a hawk. I’ve got your back.”

_You’ve got my back. I want you to have my heart._ She smiled weakly up at him for a moment before turning on her heel and heading across the roof towards Father. He watched her walk away, feeling distinctly sick, before retreating to a safe distance and setting up his sniper post.

It was the first time he’d ever seen Father - and even now, only through his scope. Still, he could see the family resemblance, _God_ could he see it, he could only imagine how Whisper felt every time she looked at the man. Father shared Whisper’s deep tawny skin, and their jaws were cut with the same sharpness, and their noses had the same elegant flat slope. His hair and beard were white peppered grey, and his eyes dark and narrow. It was almost dizzying how much he looked like his mother - and how much Deacon could tell, even from this distance, just from looking at him, that the man was possessed of such chilling intelligence and emotional detachment as to be truly, _truly_ frightening.

Deacon watched them speak, and grew to dislike Father more and more with each passing moment. It was clear that Father regarded Whisper as his intellectual inferior, and spoke with very little regard to how his words hurt the woman in front of him. The conversation was obviously heated - Whisper was on the defense and Father was angry. They were likely discussing the escape of the synths. Beneath crosshairs, Deacon watched Father’s eyes narrow as he decided whether he wanted to accept the ambush lie or not, and… _relief._ They were in the clear. If there was anyone who knew what someone’s face looked like when they bought a lie, it was Deacon. Whisper’s cover was safe, and Father may now believe her to be incompetent, but at least he didn’t know she was a traitor. Then, Father said something that seemed to strike a nerve, _deep_. Whisper took a step back and drew her hands up to cover her mouth, horrified, _hurt_. Deacon tightened his grip on the stock of his rifle and clenched his jaw. _What did Father say?_ He could see the tears biting at her eyes, see the panic rising in her chest. _Christ_ , that man seemed to be a constant source of trauma for her - she clawed her way through hell to find him, only to be hurt by him again, and again, and again. Deacon hated it - he hated seeing her hurt, and he hated even more that the Railroad was forcing her to maintain contact with Father when she otherwise wouldn’t have to. He knew what she would say if she knew he felt that way - _nobody is forcing me, I do it because I want to, what we’re doing is important and the right thing to do._ Somehow none of that helped the guilt gnawing at the pit of his stomach. As soon as he saw Father relay back to the Institute in a bright blue flash, he leapt down from his post and ran across the roof to Whisper as fast as he could.

He found her sitting cross-legged with her elbows on her knees and her head cradled in her hands. The sun was rising in earnest now, and there was little more than the flat edge of C.I.T’s roof separating them from the ground below. Metropolitan Boston stretched out before them - shattered skeletons of skyscrapers broken down and repurposed and repurposed again, raider strongholds of cobbled together wooden boards and sandbags in the streets, trashcan fires burning at every corner. A caravan was meandering through the alleyways, several pack brahmins loaded high and tied together guarded by a very tough looking group of leather-clad hired guards. In the distance, beyond Trinity Tower, Vertibirds flew low - the battle back at Bunker Hill was likely still in progress, though the synths were (hopefully) long gone. Deacon dropped to his knees at Whisper’s side.

“Hey, _hey_. What happened? What did he say?”

She wasn’t crying. He hadn’t seen her cry since she came back from her first trip to the Institute - he’d always had this idea that she cried away all the tears she had then. He’d rather she cry than look at him with those eyes - dead eyes, far away, lights off. Beaten down, brutalized, too tired to cry and too jaded to hurt. It was _wrong_. Her light shone the brightest in his life - it couldn’t be shut off, it _shouldn’t_ , she was the sun and she could keep the world alive even after the bombs but the absence of her light meant the end of _all things_. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her back to life, even if back to life meant anger or grief. When she spoke, her voice was hollow.

“We’re safe. He bought the lie.”

“That’s nice, but you _know_ that’s not what I’m asking. I could see you get upset through my scope. What did he say?”

She looked strained, like she didn’t want to talk to him about it but it was being drawn out of her because she couldn’t _not_ talk to him about it. For a moment she gazed off into the distance, chewed on her bottom lip. Her eyes darted around like they were looking for something to stick to and he knew she was trying to find her words. Eventually she laughed bitterly and shook her head.

“I never thought about it, really. Why or how my cyro chamber opened. When they came and took Shaun, they unfroze everyone but me. I awoke to row after row of rotting corpses, and never once along the way did I stop to question how I came to be freed. Even after Father told me how the Institute kept me frozen as a backup pre-War specimen… I assumed it was some random mechanical failure that woke me up. I should have known better.”

For a moment she paused, and Deacon felt dread sinking deep in his gut.

“He’s sick.” Her voice cracked. “‘Control freak’ doesn’t scratch the surface. He’s got a _lot_ of power and a _lot_ of brains and _no_ empathy whatsoever. People aren’t people to him, they’re just test subjects. Lab rats. Everything is an experiment, orchestrated to satisfy his curiosity with no regard for how it affects anyone else. He didn’t need me for anything. There was no reason for me to come out into this world. He just wanted to see what would happen.” She narrowed her eyes and her voice grew sharp - a little bit of anger coming through. Good. “He must have been getting _fucking bored_ down there.”

He couldn’t speak. He clenched his fists as blood thundered through his ears. _He_ should have known better. The Railroad was the sole watcher of the Institute. Deacon was posted on a hill overlooking Vault 111 for days after they picked up on Institute attention focused around the area - he saw it all happen. They knew the Institute wanted the woman from Vault 111 out. He’d always assumed there was some important reason - even just sentimental. Long lost family, reuniting after over 200 years. Poetic, really. It was naive of them all. Father wouldn’t be interested in having the woman who gave birth to him a part of his life unless she would bend to his dogma - and Whisper would _never_ bend.

“He needs to die,” she continued. “Before, I might have thought… I don’t know, that he could change somehow. This was his first time on the surface, you know that? Ever. In his life. And I just watched him look out over all this,” she gestured across the horizon,” and declare it a total waste. None of this amounts to anything, in his eyes. ‘The Institute is the only hope for the future.’ How can he not…” she choked on her words. “How can he not _see_? There’s so much good here. I mean, _Christ_ … the end of the world happened and you all just picked up and kept on living. You faced the apocalypse head on, instead of hiding from it underground like he did. And… I guess, like _I_ did. I never felt _right_ in my life before, I never felt like I belonged. Yeah, it’s hellish, and dangerous, and a damn hard life. But it feels like home in a way that the world before _never_ did. He just dismissed that, all of it, and that’s bad news for us up on the surface.”

A thousand times before he resisted the urge to reach out and hold her - he couldn’t this time. Kneeling on the roof together, he pulled her fast into his arms, enveloping her like he was trying to hold her down, keep the wind from picking her up and blowing her off the roof and away from him. She let herself fold in to his embrace, let herself press her face into his shoulder and breathe in his scent. For a moment, then, she could pretend that everything was okay, and the world put itself upright again and she didn’t feel like she was about to be swallowed up into a black hole - she found stability in his arms, and even she could see the irony in that. He held her for all the things he’d said too many times to say again, things that had lost their meaning, words that would be hollow from overuse. _I’m so sorry. For all you’ve been through. I’m so sorry._

“You’re right,” he spoke softly as he pulled away, his voice hushed by the gravity of the situation. “He’s an evil fuck - and after what he just said to you, he’s probably going to start trying to expand the Institute’s power and influence above ground. But we’ll stop him, you and I. We’ll kill him. I should send him a thank you note first, though.”

She cocked an eyebrow up at him, and he grasped her face in his hands.

“It’s fucked up, what he did to you. There’s no doubt about that. But if he hadn’t… you’d still be on ice down there, and not up here with me. Hell, the entire Commonwealth owes that man a debt for setting you free, because you thawed out and came up here and you’re changing everything, helping everyone. Your release may have just been an experiment to him, but to me, to _us_ , it’s been the difference between life and death, freedom and slavery, despair and hope.”

A smile - small, shy, a tiny tug at the corner of her lips and the faintest spark back in her eyes but a smile and a spark nonetheless - and the sun burst into full brilliant bloom on the horizon. Something dizzying washed over him, a tidal wave of relief and gratitude, reverent and numinous and golden pure. Only she could help him find the upside to this, endure countless horrors and still do good and _be_ good and make everyone she touched good. Only she could turn this crapsack world around, fight for the oppressed and help the downtrodden and rebuild brick by brick. Only she could bring out the best in him, make him feel like a man capable and worthy of love again. He never thought… she must have seen it in his eyes. She always knew what he was thinking. They laughed together, astonished, struck dumb by awe. Her voice was warm again, brought back to life.

“I guess he saved me, in a way.”

There was a beat of silence in which Deacon felt something uncomfortably intense building inside of him, and then the dam broke. He was already at the edge of the cliff - might as well jump.

“You know I love you, right?”

He searched her face for any sign of shock, surprise. There was none. Placid waters, calm as the Buddha, just a warm smile. She reached for his hand.

“Of course I do, Deacon. But it means nothing if you can’t say it. The loving isn’t the hard part for you… I know you like to think it is, but no. The loving comes easy. It’s the saying it that’s hard. And if you can’t do that for me, the loving doesn’t matter.”

How did she cut right to the core of the issue so quickly, with such grace? He felt exposed, shamed, but not in a cruel way. There was kindness and care even in her calling out of his shortcomings.

“I know, I’m… I’m sorry. I’ve been an ass, and I’ve put you through shit, and I’ve hurt you. _God_ , I’m sorry. You don’t deserve it. I have no excuse. I’m a coward, I’m scared, I…. things that have happened to me, in the past… I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to go through that, pain like that, I can’t… but that’s stupid, because losing you would hurt even _more_ if I lost you without ever telling you how I felt.”

Her face fell. She was feeling his pain. Deacon had mentioned some past trauma before, but never got in to specifics, and she didn’t care to pry. Everyone had hurts behind them. Everyone had ghosts chasing them. She felt for him.

“It’s okay, Deacon. I understand.”

“No, no, it’s not okay.” He inhaled sharply. “Listen. I’m saying it. _I love you._ Okay? I’ve never known anyone so strong, so brave, so completely selfless. Nobody has ever _got me_ like you do, I mean, with my sense of humor… you roll with the punches, you make everything fun, you’re smart as hell in so many different ways. Even after all you’ve been through, you see the good in everything, in everyone, you believe that everyone deserves freedom and dignity and the truth and as many chances as they can take. And you’re beautiful,  _God_ you’re the most beautiful thing in this world, and the light follows you and things bloom around you and somehow you make everything else more beautiful just by virtue of you being there. I feel like I’ve been asleep my whole life until you came and woke me up and now… now everything is different, I don’t know, it just _is_. I love you, and I’m saying it now and I’ll say it every single day for however long we’ve got left in this world because I wasted so much time being such a _fucking_ idiot and not saying it. I love you. _I love you._ ”

Deacon had forgotten - there was nothing in all of creation more beautiful than a woman being told that she is loved, and all the ways that she is loved. He would’ve fought a thousand deathclaws with his bare hands for that smile in front of him right now. He wanted to go back in time and smack himself - _don’t be such a fucking coward. Say it. It’s worth it, it’s so goddamn worth it._ All the baggage, all the bullshit, all the fear and guilt and stupid mind games melted away and he felt a remarkable burden lifted off his shoulders. No longer would he carry such a heavy weight. No longer would he bow, stoop, or struggle. He was _free_ \- and all he had to do was _say it._

“I love you too, Deacon.”

In the light of a golden dawn, at the start of a new day, with the entirety of the Commonwealth below their feet, he kissed her.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
